Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat
by Kaliber
Summary: If it wasn't for his crime-riddled past, he wouldn't have needed her father's help & therefore wouldn't be here now, staring at her from the doorway, looking & smelling like the Devil Himself. Among many things, Logan Ryder wants to be left alone but when her father comes crashing back into her life towing a wanted man, it is the last thing she'll receive. Post John Wick 2
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This story contains adult themes, harsh language, and a fair amount of gore and violence. It is rated M for a reason.**

* * *

Heat waves across rolling hills of granite and limestone distorted the Texas air, creating mirages against the horizon. The sun was at its highest, glaring down the landscape as a prone figure lied motionless with the butt of a .30-6 pressed to her cheek. Around her, like the stagnant heat, were the resonating screams of cicadas. Sweat had taken home between her cheek and the rifle's butt stock, making it a chore to maintain sight picture.

Ahead of her target, unaware of her cross hairs lined up along its back.

It lifted its unsuspecting head, sniffing the summer breeze before perking its ears. Over head, buzzards circled silently.

Exhaling through her mouth, she brought her finger past the trigger guard and against the concave of the trigger. Taking a shallow breath, she held it, realigned her sights, and squeezed the trigger on the exhale.

The shot rang out across the Texas hill country. Th bullet catching its target through the neck, throwing it into the ground within a near back flip. In the backdrop, dirt kicked up and midst the singing cicadas, the rabbit began to scream.

"Shit," the woman cursed, rising up from the ground quickly. Her shot was off and now the meat would be stiff. She slung the rifle across her back and hurried over the limestone and dying cactus' for the downed prey. It thrashed and kicked, slinging dust and blood as the life and wail bled out of it.

Taking the compact 9mm pistol from her appendix carry, she dropped the safety and aimed.

Another shot echoed over the desert hills and the shrill report stopped.

By the ears she carried her game to a parked dirt bike a few hundred meters back. A small utility bag was cinched onto the tail end of the seat. Tossing the top of the bag up, she threw the rabbit carcass inside with two dead rattlesnakes and headed home.

* * *

Logan Ryder lived alone, but not in the sense that she was isolated. Her father Caldron Ryder was exceedingly cautious to a fault and had designed a house during his younger years. Not long after, his work sent him overseas indefinitely. Knowing this and with the uncertainty on his return, passed the house unto Logan, his first and only child. With it came the surveillance, the property sensors, and several hundreds of acres.

The layout of the home went as such; Solar panels lined the roofing, providing hot water and electricity. The Ryder's had their own septic system, which was just as difficult as it sounded; a well, cameras set a perimeter around the house, but not the property in its entirety; live feed was accessible through a computer assigned in the main study on the bottom floor. Every window was reinforced, bulletproof, and sound proof; the doors as well.

Having lived several years in the homestead, Logan still couldn't recall every high end detail her father implemented into the estate. It kept her off the grid, that much she knew.

Another attribute her father found absolutely necessary was a safe room, located inside the basement. The subterranean compartment possessed dry foods, such as Meal Ready to Eat, an impressive arsenal, generator, fuel, and Logan was blue in the face trying to remember all the things down there.

Most of the weapons, like the house, were passed down to her. Being Caldron's only child, there was no one else to receive it. Her mother, Jennifer Ryder, did not particularly qualify for the inheritance after their divorce. Apparently a mercenary who may or may not return home in a body bag wasn't a top quality most women sought. Though none of the two prior marriages lasted more than 3 years, it was the money that kept most of them satisfied. After the second wife, Caldron became aware. The third struck luck. Her mom's family was of old oil money and well endorsed without Caldron's help. With this, they married for love and not long after, Logan was born.

When Jennifer got pregnant, they kept the gender a secret until delivery. Unfortunately, her father was _so_ sure Logan would be a boy that they didn't bother considering the possibility that _he_ could actually be a _she_. When the doctor broke the news upon delivery, they both agreed to keep the name. Either from laziness or they thought they were being unique, she wasn't sure. Twenty-six years later, what difference did it really make? Neither were here to address her and her work referred to her by her last name.

Logan glanced up, finding herself standing alone in her kitchen. Hours were gone, absentminded through it all. The three rattlesnakes she had killed that evening were already skinned, gutted and readied to cook. In her hands currently was the rabbit, a handful of its fur was pulled back from its neck. She had stopped midway, snapping free of her surmounting thoughts.

 _How many years had it been?_

As soon as Caldron discovered his little treasure was a boy but, unfortunately, a girl, the game changed entirely. His existence had already been hard and unforgiving, romance excluded. From the desolate streets of Fallujah as a Marine Recon to the safari planes of Africa, hunting war criminals as an operator, Caldron was no stranger to war, bloodshed, and disappointments. Which, over the course of many years, can rack up a sour reputation amongst those who've had the luxury of crossing paths. He, like many of his comrades, was ready for the worst and took every necessary precaution to ensure his wife and child could withstand on their own should something awry happen. Mostly he ensured _Logan_ had the means of protecting herself. He laid down a strict path for her to follow. It wasn't the easiest and some days were certainly harder than others, but she came through because she knew it would make him proud. The suffering was well worth the reward except...

Now, all that training and following in his wake seemed worthless to her. He had forged a smaller, deadlier version of himself or so he thought. But where was the glory in that if he didn't watch her thrive? She crawled through muddy pits of barbed wire and bracken, tracers and explosions, fought men twice her size, hunted her own game and grew her own food. She was a self-sustaining human, exactly what he wanted her to be. She could fight bare handed, with small arms, or even larger ballistics. She could do all these things because that was what he wanted of her. But where was he now? How did she know his efforts proved a success if he refused to have anything to do with her?

Across the room was the fireplace where family photos rested along the mantle. A picture that always rose more questions than admiration still remained for the world to see: _newborn Logan cradled in her weary mother's arms_. Of course, it wasn't that aspect that aroused suspicion. It was Jennifer's black eyes nearly swollen shut, the busted lip, and deep purple bruising about her arms and shoulders that startled onlookers. They had to stabilize her before administering the crowning baby the night Logan was born.

 _My God,_ her few friends would gasp, _what the hell happened to your mom?_

 _I don't know_ , she'd tell them.

That was the awful truth. Logan worried which was worse. It seemed most of her father's incessant training stemmed from _that_ night, which only made him seem more maniacal considering it'd been _over twenty years._

Of course, the hospital called the police and everyone wanted to blame him, even if the evidence was inconclusive. Jennifer made her statements and swore it wasn't domestic violence that placed her in such conditions. But in the same breath, it seemed she refused to say who exactly had done it. That or she didn't know. Whoever it was sent her mom into preterm labor was still out there, still breathing, lurking, maybe even assaulting someone right now. Everything was coming at them at once. _An attack. A newborn baby. A life slipping away._ _By the way, what's the baby's name?_

 _Fuck it, her name is Logan._

Along the white marble top were dark smears of blood and caked dirt. Scales that had fallen off the snake pelt were swept into a pile with the left over tufts of rabbit fur. Logan took a deep breath and respired heavily and with palpable unsatisfaction. The empty house welcomed the sound, drifting over the vacant dining room and living area. Despite how adamantly she ignored it, she knew how long it'd been since she'd spoken, much less seen her father. It remained to plague her with the unknown and frightening uncertainty of his whereabouts and his conditions.

Her hands worked to set aside the meat and clean the counter top. The sun was setting. On her right, the windows were black. On her left, hues of orange, pinks, and purples took blended across the horizon. The coming dusk changed its chorus from cicadas to crickets and frogs near the shallow creek beds along her property. That awful number continued to float through her mind. Flexing her jaw, she tried humming to divert her focus everywhere but on the years that had passed without him. Logan couldn't sing, write poetry, apply makeup-not without help-or walk in heels. She was too busy becoming her father, throwing all her eggs in one basket to branch out anywhere else. Maybe that was why she was single.

"You better be dead," she muttered bitterly to herself as she tossed the pelts into the trash and washed her hands. _That's the only excuse she'd allow._

She brought the meats to the stove top and grabbed several bottles of seasonings.

Even her mother was out of touch, but not because of work or the like. She just _refused_ to talk to Logan. Her relationship with her mother wasn't of Hallmark quality. But, for what it's worth, she preferred it that way. The few times they were stuck in a room together, the conversations were forced and distant. Though blood bridged the two genetically, emotionally they were detached and estranged.

Logan wasn't the girl her mother wished to raise. Coming from a high-class oil tycoon, girls were taught at a young age to act refined and disinterested. Caldron made sure otherwise. There was a particular way things had to be done and Logan never learned proper etiquette, much less how to wear a dress, though efforts had been made. Caldron had rules and they were to be followed. Neither Logan or her mother had a say in the matter. A response due to the attack that nearly claimed her life as well as her mother's.

Logan snorted to herself. Truly, he was a maniac.

However, Caldron's rules weren't always followed. Of the ever-growing list, Logan broke one: she joined the United States Army. Her father detested the idea of her serving and certainly made an impression of it during her younger years. Perhaps his time as a Marine showed him sides of the military he found unfitting for his daughter. Another mystery for her to solve another time...or never.

" _I can teach you everything you need to know without signing your life away."_ He'd scold her randomly, even if a mention of enlisting hadn't been made. But that changed after he sold her the house and practically dropped off the map. She did it out of spite, hoping to elicit some type of response from him, lure him out of hiding if it only meant reprimanding. She'd rather hear him shout and bellow in anger than hear nothing at all. Moreover, he always had a way of finding things out. His connections ran deep and wide. Whether networking locally or overseas, he knew _someone_ from _somewhere._ Nothing happened or could happen without his knowledge. Logan was so certain of this, she feared during her enlistment process, he would somehow sabotage her effort and thus, Logan would be turned away.

But the contract was signed and she had been in three years thus far and still, not a word from her father.

It infuriated her. He was her everything. Her guardian. Her teacher. _Her dad!_ Why would he not return her phone calls? Or emails? Shit, at this rate, she'd be satisfied with a simple text. Just something that showed her he was still alive and not strung up somewhere to bleed out. She feared his absence was the nature of his job. He dealt with diplomats traveling abroad, war criminals setting fire to oil reserves and pirates intercepting freighters across the sea. If it was out of caution and protection that he severed ties, it still bothered her to no end.

 _Let them come. Whoever they are. Whatever it is they want. She could handle them._

The thought made her stomach twist and for a moment, she lost her appetite and the interest to cook. But that too diminished and she went back to tending to the meats.

In this large empty house there was just Logan, where everything reminded her of Caldron. From the multiple stories to the handcrafted stone fireplace, he had built this home from the ground up. The decorations had also been of her father's hand. Like many Texans, he liked the rustic approach of dark wood floors, darker brick with antlers and leather abound.

Throwing the meats into the stove, she slammed the door shut and pressed bake. The oven clicked and hummed as she stepped back.

This was her routine.

In the mornings, she would rise before the sun, don her flight suit and commute to Austin. From 8 to 5, she'd work. By six, she was home, preparing dinner for one. She considered getting a dog, but what would be the use? Animals were for eating and surviving off of. Logan couldn't imagine cuddling an armadillo or a coatimundi. Not to mention, despite her coarse exterior, Logan had quite the amount of love to offer but the love was assigned for Caldron, her once-doting father. Because of this, she abhorred the idea of loving something smaller with a shorter lifespan. She hadn't the heart to take such a blow if it were to die.

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she brought the bottle with her to the living room. Nestling on her wrap-around couch, she tucked her legs beneath her and drank deeply and in her own quiet company. The taste caused her to shudder as the bitterness coated her tongue and throat. Wine was gross, but it helped her sleep and it was healthier than a carbonated beer, though she preferred beer above all else. Especially Texas beers.

The minutes ticked on as she sat in the silent company of pelts, a stag head, and an empty fireplace while the food cooked. She was one glass in when the distant rumble of thunder and a faint flicker of lightning brought her gaze towards a window. As if on cue, the hum of rainfall followed directly after, filling the empty house with its voiceless chorus. The night was impenetrable without a moon but she could see the rain running rivulets down the thick windows. Another sighed filled her lungs and then the living room. This one of content. She liked sleeping through thunderstorms.

 _Beep!_

The sound caused her to glance over her shoulder towards the small device within the study room, the area she kept the live feed camera and computer. Rainfall filled the silence subsequently and for a moment, Logan thought she'd imagined it.

 _Beep!_

It came again. No, she hadn't imagined it.

Rising quickly from the couch, she hurried barefooted over towards the monitor nearby and brought up the night vision camera displays that surrounded her house.

 _Beep! Beep! Beep! The property gate was opening._

 _There,_ she spotted the truck tearing down her driveway through the rain. The gate required a passcode, one that only she and one other knew.

 _Was her father here?_

Her heart leaped for a moment then the heavy lead of doubt and fear followed suit. Abandoning her wine glass, she ran through the living room and kitchen shutting off all the lights and grabbing her pistol. The sound of tires biting into the gravel grew louder as the truck neared. They braked and turned, washing their headlights over the front of Logan's house before coming to an abrupt halt.

Pressing her back against the wall, she took measured breaths to keep a steady heartbeat and adjusted and readjusted her pistol grip at the low ready. A plan had already taken ground in her mind. The night was still young. It couldn't be later than 9 pm and it was a Sunday night. While her thoughts rifled through whom it could be, she leaned carefully to peek out through the blinds of her dining room window.

A tall figure stalked behind and around his truck, avoiding the bright headlights, and came to the passenger side. The door was yanked open, filling the interior with the overhead light. The rain was making it difficult to see. She still couldn't decipher who they were. The sky opened into a fierce downpour by a pronouncing clap of thunder. The interior light went out once the door slammed shut.

Their footfalls came through the gravel and soon…

 _BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!_

A pounding that kicked started Logan's heart came from the front door.

"Logan!" The man shouted over the rain and beyond the thick door. "Logan, it's me! Open up!"

She recognized that voice. Abandoning her pistol, heart climbing into her throat, she darted across her dining room, knocking chairs over, and slapped lights on. She nearly fell when she entered the foyer, moving with a quick madness as she unlocked the deadbolt and yanked the door back.

There he stood; Caldron Ryder in the flesh, alive and...

Next to him, leaning into his arms and unable to stand on his own was a bleeding and battered a man she'd never seen before.

* * *

 **Being Texan, WHY HAVEN'T I WRITTEN A STORY IN TEXAS? What's wrong with me! This is mostly a test chapter. I just watched John Wick 2 and I'm a slight gun nerd so of course I was overwhelmed with inspiration. And I think Keanu is smoking *wags eyebrows* I'd like to know what yall think. if this is a bust, well, I won't waste time continuing it, but if people are interested, yknow how it goes.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

"Help me, darn it!" her father's Texas twang barked at her as he came through the door. You can imagine how many times Logan envisioned their reunion. None of which included a dying man amidst a severe thunderstorm.

Another flash of lightning lit up the backdrop as Logan stepped forward, shouldering while she brought her arms across the stranger's shoulders. The dark tailored suit he wore was drenched from the rain and by the metallic tang of blood assaulting her nose, she feared that also had something to do with the sodden fabric. How could he have gotten this wet from the truck to the front door? The thought answered itself and she wondered what kind of trouble they fled from before coming here.

Despite that he was heavy and struggling to maintain consciousness, Logan held him up as her father headed back outside into the storm. Tracks of mud, water and now blood covered the hard floor where they stepped. Mindful of this, she turned carefully and steered him towards the couch. Step by step, they ambled away from the door as her father's truck lights washed over her front porch again. The man was heavy, her thighs burning under the exertion.

"What the fuck?" she gawk, attempting to glance beyond the man slouched against her without losing control.

 _Was he leaving her? With this guy?_ _Better yet, what had just happened?_

Plopping the man down as gentle as she could, he staunched a painful groan and rested his head back. For a moment, Logan wasn't sure what to do next. The tail lights of her father's truck were drifting down the driveway and the man before her was turning a sickly pallor. Was she supposed to do something with him? Take him out of his misery? Tend to him?

Swallowing thickly, she knelt and began unfastening his tattered shirt. Peeling away the drenched fabric, her eyes darted across his exposed torso in shock. Deep, but barely superficial cuts maimed his ribs and abdomen like someone had attempted to stab him but narrowly missed. Alongside those what looked to be several gunshot wounds. _Was that a bite mark?_ Logan cringed.

Cursing beneath her breath, she continued to remove the fabric carefully. He needed to be stitched, the bullets dug out. He needed to be hooked up to an IV and most certainly required blood.

"I need..," the man's word were hardly audible. There was probably a litany of stresses he was fighting to stay awake. Better yet, stay alive. Logan wasn't sure if it was rainwater or sweat across his brow.

"I know," she interrupted, slinging heaps of sodden clothes into a pile in her living room. "You need blood, yes. I know. What type?"

His mouth moved but no words were formed. His eye closed in concentration. One nostril was painted red. Blood crusted as the corner of his mouth. Small scores littered his face. Bruising hid itself behind a trimmed black beard. The man had probably seen better days.

"Positive? A positive?" she read his lips.

"Yeah."

"Awesome," she muttered sarcastically. She needed supplies of every variety. Had any other person showed up in the same fashion without her father, she'd allowed the wounded to bleed out on the front step, but this man meant something to Caldron. Out of fear of disappointing him, Logan decided to do what she could with what she had. Checking his wounds again, she counted the ones needing stitches. Initially, she thought about cauterizing them. But it appeared he was already in enough distress so she opted against it.

"I'll be right back," she said. Disappearing for a moment, she returned with a large black duffel and readied an IV. She draped the saline bag against a lamp shade, flushed the line and prepared the syringe. After that, she dressed down into a tank top and sterilized the bend of her own elbow.

"Just your luck, John Doe," she murmured, wiping the alcohol pad over the intended injection site. "I'm A positive, too."

The Ryder estate was many things. A doom's day bunker. Refuge. A safe house. A redneck's toy store, but it wasn't a blood bank. She hoped her father had left to get blood because a couple of pints was all Logan could offer without getting sick and passing out. And _clearly,_ judging by the puddle of blood by the door, the trickle across the floor, and the thick smell hanging in the air, two pints would not be enough.

She slipped the needle into his vein, replaced it with a catheter, and connected the tubing in three fluid motions. Now it was her turn to prime. Only problem was she hated needles.

Setting her jaw, she aimed the needle and pushed without giving herself time to stall and change her mind. The catheter swapped the needle, she switched to the tubing and the blood surged forward. Tightening the clamps on either ends, she slowed the trickle of blood nearly to a stop and sat back. The breath she had been holding came out slowly as she relaxed. The worst part was over. Now she began stitching, which was an easy feat. Two birds, one stone. Two pints maximum, she reminded herself. At the rate she had adjusted, maybe after three hours she could stop the transfusion. Glancing at the clock, she read 2200.

 _It's going to be a long night._

Across the room, her device chirped, alerting her of her father's return. The truck parked and this time he let himself in, much to her relief. For the second time that evening, her heart swelled painfully as he made his way into the living room. Slung over his shoulder was a large white trash bag transparent enough to see the bags of blood inside. A heavy wooden trunk also came with but he left that by the door. He dropped the trash bag, freeing little drops of rain onto her rug. He eyed the tubing starting at Logan's elbow and finishing in the incapacitated man's and nodded, pleased with her efforts. Her heart soared.

There was a certain way she felt in the presence of her father: small and meek. As if his existence took up the space and the air around them. Even the light seemed to shine brighter. His arms were thick like a tree's truck and carved with tattoos from shoulder to wrist. Glancing at his worn hands, she recalled the times those very hands helped her to her feet when she fell or wiped her tears when she cried. Caldron was nothing but gentle and endearing, albeit she couldn't help but feel timid in his proximity and towering stature. He had that effect on majority of people. Logan was not immune to it.

Respiring, Caldron ran a calloused hand down his rugged face then scratched his chin hidden by a thick red beard. Apparently it was a long night for him, as well.

"Thank you for doing this." he muttered, propping his meaty hands akimbo. "I already dug the bullets out before I came over." He leaned a bit and narrowed his eyes, noting the small stiff black thread criss-crossing each other. "I guess you've already finished with the stitching. That's my girl." His deep voice was music to her ears. Her favorite part of her favorite song she hadn't heard in years. Logan didn't know what to say. She wanted to stand and hug him, but she was already in the middle of a transfusion.

As quickly as she was pleased to see him, reality bit into her.

Setting her jaw, she couldn't stop the anger heating her chest. Harsh words bubbled up, readied to launch from her lips and berate him for ignoring her, for the years of silence. Had she not been tethered by plastic and blood flow, she would have jumped to her feet. She wanted to stand and reprimand him disappearing. But her eyes followed the crimson tube that led to a very injured person. The situation was delicate and beyond Logan's scope of understanding. Of course, she had questions and concerns. Why did he bring this man? Who the hell was he? Where did the bullet holes and knife wounds come from? One person or multiple? Did they know he was here? Whoever they were?

"Where have you been?" Logan blinked. She didn't mean to say that. That question was supposed to remain in her head, locked away for her to fret and fester over.

"Logan," he warned, exasperated already. It would have to wait. Her questions were not priority right now.

She knew that tone too well and considered shrugging it off. Inside, though, the questions were surmounting. Just moments ago she had been thinking of him like a fond memory, like a ghost she once knew. But here he was in the flesh, toting with him a problem he dragged, no _she_ dragged into her living room. She glanced at the man again. His eyes were closed and she thought he was dead if it weren't for the subtle rise and fall of his bare chest. She wished he was dead. How simple that resolution could be. End the transfusion, clean up the mess, bury the body. Then she could sit down with her father finally.

Logan was a patient woman, but she knew a sketchy situation when she saw one. Caldron was an operator and delved heavily in firefights. If this was a man caught in the crossfire, he had no place in her home and should have been left, not brought to her. Of the years of silence that passed, never would she have considered _this_ to be the reason of his return. She had done everything she could think of to find him, even went at length as to assign an investigator. But Caldron was good at hiding. _And killing._ The PI couldn't find him any better than he could remove his own head from his ass. For his own safety, she called off the investigation. Prying eyes and badgering phone calls was not how to lure Caldron out from hiding and she didn't want the investigator getting hurt or killed.

"Is he from Blackwater?" she asked suddenly, looking up at him.

"No," replied Caldron, staring at the man. "He has nothing to do with us."

"Then why is he here? What happened to him?"

He looked down at her, meeting the same shade of eyes as his. That small feeling came back to her again. His gaze was so heavy and predatory. Then a smile lifted the corner of his mouth and he chuckled through his nose. Her questions were ignored. _How was that funny to him?_

Groaning like an old man, he sat down in a cigar chair. "Have you heard from your mother?"

Looking down at the tube, she noticed its warmth laying against her forearm. Not of Hallmark quality, she reminded herself. Jennifer wanted nothing to do with Logan. Her daughter was too rough, too unladylike, too willing to run through the hill country barefooted and chasing quails and lizards.

"No," she whispered.

"I figured."

"Then why'd you ask?" she shot back, already wishing she could recant her words. The topic was still sensitive. Though she was careful and respectful of her words, she was currently supplying blood to one of his friends. She felt like she had the room to stir the pot. Caldron failed at hiding the effects of her bitterness. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath through his nose. When he exhaled, he tilted his head and looked at her.

"I need you to help me right now, Logan." he drawled. "I don't want to fight. I didn't come here to fight. This man, there's a lot of people after him. You trackin'?"

There was a lot of sighing going on in the living room, she noted. She hated that saying _y_ _ou trackin'?_ Part of her wanted to say no so he would have to go into further detail and hopefully omit the phrase entirely, but she nodded instead.

"Good," he muttered. "And another thing. I'm the only person allowed to come through that door, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'm serious, Logan. I don't care if the milk man's got a special sale on his chocolate 2 percent. _No one_ comes through that door or even on this property. If they do…"

He perked an eyebrow and pointed a finger. That was her cue.

"Shoot 'em," she smiled weakly. Her heart was thundering in her chest. Could he hear it through the rain? Probably.

He stood then, reaching for his keys in his bloodied jeans. He moved towards the door and fear began to creep along Logan's shoulders. She was never going to see him again, she realized. Lowering her eyes, she refused to watch him leave. The last time she had been hopeful and ignorant. There had been laughter in her heart and a smile on her face. If she knew then what she knew now... Those heavy boots stopped and came back. Still staring at the floor, the steel toes breached her field of vision, but she didn't look up. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head then mussed her dark hair like she was a kid again.

Her body was shaking. _Why was she shaking?_

A knot formed in her throat, threatening to choke her to death. _If only…_ She didn't want to see him go. Twenty six or not, she would always be his little girl. She lost the battle and looked up.

"Now don't do any of that." He chuckled as he noted the tears welling in her doleful stare.

"I can't help it." she hissed, looking shamefully to the floor again. "I haven't seen you in so long."

"I'll be back, baby." he twanged, returning to the muddy foyer. He paused again, staring out into the inky black storm. He reached for the door, grasped the handle and seemed to struggle internally. The latch gave and a rumble of thunder slipped passed the threshold, heralding the sound of rainfall into her home. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

"I love you, Logan." his southern accent wavered.

Logan could feel herself slipping again. She nodded as the colors of the living room and the foyer blurred together.

"I love you too..."

* * *

Time stood still after her father left. She didn't know just how much blood the man needed, so she focused on the warm tube resting on her arm until she grew tired. Sitting up, she went to extract the catheter from her elbow when something caught her eye. She glanced up as soon as the man reached for his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose tiresomely and dropped his hand back to his side. He seemed to be waking up now. It hadn't been that long. Perhaps she woke him up. Maybe she could get some answers out of him?

Glancing between her arm and his, while fingering the catheter without detaching it, she considered now to be a good time to investigate.

"Who are you?" Logan eyed the newcomer as her blood continuously flowed into the ditch of his elbow.

"My name's John," he said simply. His voice was deep and hoarse.

Her eyes narrowed incredulously, readying to probe further. "Where did you come from?"

"New York."

That surprised her. She was expecting somewhere closer. _A drug bust in Oklahoma or a gamble gone wrong in Louisiana. Perhaps a Navajo, drunk and homeless, fleeing the New Mexico state line._

"That's quite a ways," she muttered. "Well then, welcome to Texas."

Keeping his eyes opened seemed a chore. He also exuded very little interest at conversation, which was fine with Logan. She was a person of few words, as well. Removing both catheters, she drained the blood and cleaned up. She had some spare clothes she was certain he could fit into. Might as well ready him a room, she considered as she gathered the bloodied pile of clothes to throw away.

 _Bullet holes. Stab marks. A bite mark! God knew what else._

She tossed the clothes into the trash, grabbed the trash bag of packaged blood and wandered upstairs. Despite their seemingly estranged relation, Logan kept a room ready for her father's return. Albeit, she hadn't expected it to be so sudden and also so short and confounding. In fact, she hadn't expected it at all. Logan set aside several blood bags and fashioned one to be ready for transfusion when she got John upstairs. Rummaging through the drawers, she grabbed cotton pajamas that still held the tags and a large, weathered shirt. When she came back down stairs, John was sitting up and fully awake.

Black stains of blood pooled in places he laid. She wanted to mind, to have a sense of normalcy within the whole situation but she had never been normal, no thanks to Caldron. She didn't care about the bloodstains or the couch, or the muddy foot prints and trickles of blood in the foyer. She still held onto the high brought by her father's return. Highs and lows, of course.

"Here," she proffered the articles of clothing. "Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Can you walk upstairs?" she clarified.

He glanced the way she had come from, gauging how much energy he had left. Before he could decide on an answer her or provide something vague and useless, she decided for him.

"Alright, I'll help you. It's fine," she almost snapped. Why was she mad at him? Perhaps because there was a chance this man knew more about her father's whereabouts than she did and that did not sit well with her.

Like before, she helped him to his feet, draping an arm over her shoulder. He was much taller than Logan, fitting just beneath his underarm as they walked. He had to hunch to take advantage of her help as they mounted the stairs. It took straining several minutes and a few times a stop had to be made so John could catch his breath and staunch the pain. Logan needed to rest too. Her thighs were burning again.

"Almost there," she reassured him, advancing one careful step at a time.

They reached the room and she gently sat him down on the edge of his new bed before placing his clean pajamas next to him. She headed to turn the bathroom lights on.

"I can't help you shower," she explained, retrieving a towel and turning the water on. "But there's a bench for you to sit on in case you get weary." Logan came back into the bedroom and placed the clean towel next to him. John leaned forward to rest his elbows against his thighs and hung his head. His hair listed, long enough to hide his eyes from Logan. Uncomfortable, she stepped back and eyed the bags of blood on the nightstand.

"The sooner you clean up, the sooner I can administer another transfusion," she told him. "And the sooner you can go to bed."

* * *

 **Here's another lengthy chapter. Sorry, I really don't mean to dump hefty word counts on yall, but I have to go back and make sure I didn't make any mistakes and when I'm rereading, I see parts where Im like "Oh, I see what I'm trying to say." and I add more. Just part of the editing process. I'd also like to go ahead and say there will be John Wick 2 spoilers (not too bad) and of course gore, violence, language, and sexuality. I feel like I really need to emphasize this because I intend to make things loud and crazy. Also to my encouraging readers!:**

 **lilmissbrave: I'm glad you're enjoying this and thank you for the kind words.**

 **Guest: Awesome! It makes me super happy I could achieve that in one chapter!**

 **HollyHobbit13: Write on! I shall! And oh yes, Keanu. So delicious. So stoic! What's not to love?**

 **Iona: thank you for the review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter contains mild smut. If you wish to avoid that then what do you expect me to do about it? I warned you!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

The long night passed and morning started peeking over the horizon. Logan had just drifted to sleep when her startling alarm clock erupted the heavy silence. The blaring noise felt like claws raking against the inside of her skull with every honk. Reaching out from beneath the blankets, she yanked the electrical cord and unplugged it from the wall. The digital blue light went out and the sound stopped. Throwing the cord to the floor, she retracted her arm and curled into a tight ball beneath the warm covers.

The wine did little to help her sleep. Though she was terribly tired, physically from the transfusion and emotionally from her father, she couldn't fall asleep. Throughout the night she got up to swap bags while John slept. He'd taken three so far. She presumed the third was empty by now. Like a stretched rubber band, her mind snapped back to thoughts of her father. The beacon of light in her stormy thoughts.

He said he loved her. She played the words over and over in her head.

It wasn't a frequent endearment. It was both scary and exalting to hear him utter those words. The last time she had heard him say such a phrase, she had nearly drowned. Caldron was the one to resuscitate her. It was a harmless accident. One she didn't really think about often. Not in a bad way, at least. Most kids had trouble swimming. What's a childhood without a near-death experience involving lakes and ponds? If anything, it was waking up cradled in his arms that she remembered vividly; a burly man on the brink of tears. The experience was startling for any twelve year old and carved a concise memory into her mind, but she never thought of it negatively.

Sitting up, Logan could still hear it raining. Bringing her hands to her face, she rubbed her eyes and cheeks then neck. There was tension there and in her shoulders, a soreness that ached where she'd squeezed. The result of hauling a grown man up a set of stairs. Then she thought of John and wondered if he had survived the night. If not, easy fix. Hiding a dead man was easier than a live one. However, she wondered if the news would upset her father. John hadn't divulged anything so she had to no way of knowing his worth or his connections to her father. But, she was a patient woman. For now, she'd tend to him as best she could until his strength returned or until her father came for him.

Throwing the covers back, she headed downstairs to make a pot of coffee.

* * *

The illuminated screen of her cell phone turned black after a while. A cup of coffee rested between her hands. She was currently perched on her bar stool with one leg tucked beneath her and the other propped so that she could rest her chin along the knee. Like her father, she kept her phone downstairs to charge overnight. It kept him from fiddling with it when it was time for bed, so it worked in the same aspect for Logan. However, there were no missing calls from him or anyone for that matter. Not even unopened text messages. This was expected,but nonetheless, disappointing. She needed answers. Albeit when she took the stairs this morning, she secretly hoped to find something awaiting her, anything really.

 _A good morning._

 _Another thank you_.

Maybe a simple heart to let her know he was thinking about her.

 _Nothing._

Another sense of doubt prickled her spine. Had she imagined it all? She couldn't have. Mud, dried drops of blood, and a large wooden trunk still resided by the foyer. She saw them on her way to the kitchen. Her eyes had lingered on the massive truck mottled with bloody handprints, mud, and water stains. Whatever it was to John or her father, she assumed it didn't concern her. But it should. Considering she had somehow agreed to hide someone. Now that she thought about it, her father didn't really give her an option to say no.

As if on cue, footsteps overhead lifted Logan's eyes from the mobile's black screen to the chandelier above.

 _John was awake._

She didn't mean to hold her breath as the steps descended the stairs. When he quietly came around the corner, Logan exhaled. Despite the overcast, the morning sunrise still filled the interior of her home, bathing the disheveled stranger in a spectral blue. He stopped midway and regarded her evenly, sleep hovering over his features. The cotton pajamas nearly covered his feet and the large shirt was too baggy, making him look skinny and malnourished. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her it was time for breakfast. She hoped his liked rattlesnake.

Logan met his steady gaze and a silence encompassed them. Having just woken, his jet black hair still appeared neatly parted down the middle. It was long, falling just passed his cheekbones in straight inky tendrils. Logan swore the longer she looked at it, the darker his hair became.

"You're a pilot," John stated, interrupting her thoughts. He took a step forward, migrating closer and she could see the bags beneath his eyes but the taut expressions she witnessed the night before were gone. He must have seen the pictures of her college days. Logan attended civilian flight school in the Dallas-Fort Worth area several years ago. Perhaps it was supposed to be a question, she wasn't sure. She was terrible at reading people, especially John so she nodded.

The coffee mug was still warm between her hands. An extra mug had been set out for John but she hadn't anticipated him to wake so soon. In fact, she hadn't anticipated him to still be alive. The foot beneath her posterior began to go numb, but she feared moving. It'd been a while since she was alone with someone else. _How did the social cues go again?_

When he realized she hadn't much to say on the matter, he cleared his throat and looked around. His eyes roamed the kitchen before settling along his assigned mug. Shuffling quietly to the coffee pot, he poured himself a cup without a cue, which she admired greatly. _Who else could the mug be for?_

Logan examined him as he brought the porcelain gingerly to his lips, tentatively sipping. He added no sweetener or sugar, like Logan. She listened to him swallow, expected a satisfied sigh as any normal person would perform, but her expectations were unmet.

"Apaches," she finally murmured, lowering her eyes to the inky pool captured in her own cup.

Without looking at her, he nodded and took a second sip.

* * *

Uncomfortable with the idea of leaving John unattended for the first day, Logan called into work and told them she hadn't slept well. The point of lying seemed frivolous to her. The theory was she couldn't perform up to par fatigued. Flying a multi-million dollar war machine through the sky with two minutes of sleep seemed quite the feat. A simple feat Logan could accomplish but, frankly, didn't want to. The commander sounded worried near the end. She hung up before he started questioning her. When she returned downstairs John had wandered out onto the back patio. She had a garden out there and several fruit trees. The Ryder estate sat atop of precipice that overlooked the Texas hill country. If he looked hard enough, he'd spot several creeks and a lake they fed from.

Cutting up pieces of the rattlesnake, she warmed the meat with diced vegetables along a skillet, intending to make breakfast tacos. A few minutes had passed before John returned, seating along the island where she cooked. He poured a second cup and quietly drank. She wondered if he liked tacos and if he had ever tasted rattlesnake. Besides, who doesn't like tacos?

Whether he intended it or not, Logan was exceedingly uncomfortable around John. Something about the way his eyes followed her, narrowing at times as if committing every detail to memory. He was learning her and she did not like that. Moreover, there was no emotion from the man it seemed. One of the many things Caldron taught Logan was not to grant an enemy insightーmaintain unpredictability therefore always possess the element of surprise. She still hadn't decided whether John was foe or friendly.

But how could she? Gauging him was like guessing a concrete wall's favorite ice cream.

Certainly, he knew the way she balanced on her feet, how she looked before she turned. He probably knew what color of blue she painted her toenails. Hoping to harbor at least one secret, she placed one foot over the other and curled her toes. The skillet and its contents hissed, filling the airy kitchen with spices and a musty fragrance of coriander and rattlesnake. She prodded the morsels with a spatula, feeling how rapid her heart beat as she grew more and more suspicious of this _John_. A fake name, no doubt.

There wasn't much she knew about him. Caldron just seemingly dropped him off and left her to figure out the rest.

 _Kill whatever comes after him._

She grumbled internally. Why should she? she thought defiantly. Why was this suddenly her fucking problem?

The sound of porcelain against marble brought her out of her mental chide and she glanced over her shoulder. John was standing, looking down at his cup of coffee. There was a shift in the atmosphere, Logan felt as if fate had delivered an answer to her suspicions. He looked up and they held stares. Something fierce darkened his countenance as he stalked around the large kitchen island towards Logan. Panic licked her spine.

Dropping the spatula, she stepped back from the stove, turning so that she faced him as she backed away.

John lunged, sweeping his arm across as if to catch her.

Leaping back, she evaded several more grabs but couldn't maintain her footing fast enough. John seized her shoulders, pulling her towards him and the kitchen erupted into a cacophony of chaos. A mug was knocked from the countertop, smashing to pieces and spilling coffee everywhere. She tried twisting from his grasp but ended up spinning herself into a choke hold. Dropping her arm, she got a fistful of his thigh instead of her intended target: his groin. He wrenched, loosening his hold, allowing Logan to spring free. Her bare feet slapped against the floor as she faltered, slipping on the warm liquid beneath her. The moment she regained her footing, he was already upon her swinging just as she turned. Ducking, Logan took several blows, parrying a majority but the man was fast and obviously well versed in jujutsu, even despite his injuries. It seemed she had been bested by her own advice: maintaining the element of surprise. A few times Logan managed several of her own strikes to his midsection and she wondered how the stitchings were holding up. She had given him blood and here the bastard was trying to kill her.

He cuffed her ear, nearly stunning her and a single high-pitched tone rang out in her head. This reminded her to keep her hands up and in front of her face. Logan had this. She'd been here before _many times_ and after this, if she made it, Caldron was going to get _an earful._

John was taller, denser in muscle, sure, but he could fall. He could fall _hard._ They grappled and Logan waited for him to seize her again. When he did, she slapped the bend of his elbow, trapped his foot beneath hers, shoved the palm of her hand into his nose and pushed his head down. It all happened in a blink. Like a chain reaction, his head bucked back and the rest of him followed. He collapsed to the floor, thrown from his balance, but Logan was far from finished. She followed into a full mount, straddling him, wrapping her hands around his throat. She began to choke him, driving her thumbs into either side of his Adam's apple as the pressure shut off blood flow to his brain. Using her body weight as leverage, Logan held fast atop him. His hands gripped her all over, seeking a weak spot, anything to dismantle her.

Rage kept her strong. Anger towards her father for allowing this man into her home gave her ample strength.

In a blur, her elbow was struck, collapsing it just as something firm jabbed her in the jugular notch. He tossed her aside and she flopped onto her back gagging and coughing around the pain. Grimacing, she dug her heels into the hardwood floor, clambering back with one arm while the other held the base of her neck. He didn't follow her. In fact, he remained laying down.

Logan paused to reassess the situation. _Was that it?_ she wondered. _That was it._ It had to be. Why would her father want her to hide a man intent on hurting her? It wasn't possible. He'd never bring an untrustworthy subject within miles of Logan. _So what the fuck was that?_

This was something else. John did not advance her thereafter, nor were there any indications that she had stunned him. In fact, there was one frightening occasion John could have easily snapped her neck. Not to mention he had willingly loosened his hold on her, allowing her to slip free.

 _Was it a test?_

She dropped her shoulder and flopped against the floor defeated. Together they caught their breaths against the cool hardwood, staring into the high ceiling as they winced and groaned.

"Good," John muttered roughly. "Good."

It was a _test,_ she realized. He had no intention of killing her. Somehow she had been assigned to protect him, at the very least, hide him. From what? Logan deserved to know and soon. But it made perfect sense. If the shoe was on the other foot, she would want to know what he was capable of.

"Jujutsu?" she asked between breaths.

"Yeah," he responded breathlessly. "Krav Maga?"

She licked her dried lips, nodding. "Yeah..."

Logan sat up, wincing as she lifted. The knees she took to the midsection still throbbed and her ankles felt banged up where he had attempted tripping her. John remained strewn along the floor and paid little mind as she stepped over him to return to the kitchen.

Now she was _very_ hungry and for more than just food.

* * *

After cleaning broken glass and coffee, they ate in silence and it seemed as though they were more at ease after the strife. Logan didn't find him staring at her in that peculiar way as if she had grown a head out the side of her neck. Whether he felt the same, there would be no way of telling. He was impossible to read and she was envious of that. When she finished, Logan dropped her dishes into the sink and headed for the stairs. She expected John to say something to her like any curious guest would, but again, what did she know. His silence told her apparently nothing as she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. The need to get as far away from him as possible was consuming her.

Throwing the shower on, she undressed quickly and stepped under the scorching stream. Her skin prickled as she slowly rotated beneath the spray. In her mind, she replayed the fight, spotting her weaknesses and where she went wrong. There were too many moments she should have blocked instead of sacrificing her stance by ducking.

Throughout her body throbbing and aches where John had painfully impacted her still resonated. This only heightened her curiosity. She knew next to nothing about him aside from the obvious connection to her father. But Caldron had admitted John wasn't apart of Blackwater. However, that didn't mean he wasn't affiliated with other brother divisions like DynCorp or Triple Canopy. Maybe even organizations she'd never heard of, smaller or lesser known groups.

She could still hear him and feel him. His huffs and grunts so close to her, she felt his breath. Why was she thinking of that? Why did her mind keep replaying the images of how his hands seized her hips when she went into a full mount? Stepping closer to the stream, she lifted her face into the harsh spray. She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose. This place was too big and too empty to be alone. Working was not a medium Logan used to socialize. The military had ranks and chain of commands. Warrant officers were considered a sort of hybrid. Not necessarily enlisted but not a commissioned officer either. That's all it was; Logan was lonely. During SERE training, her body had responded similarly during interrogations where they beat and threw her around.

She hadn't been this vulnerable around someone in quite some time. That's why she needed to get away from him, she assured herself. Nothing else and certainly not a faint attraction. Scrambling for an excuse to this sudden affliction, Logan thought of the men at the brigade. They were narcissistic and obnoxious. She abhorred their ostentatious behavior. Though she had been there for several years, the lot of them were strangers to her.

 _But so was John._

Along her back her dark hair joined in a solid rivulet channeled by the water. Her skin prickled again, flashing images of John beneath her, teeth gritted, eyes of sheer will and determination. He showed her something. She saw him if only for a moment.

Before she realized, her hand drifted down the plains of her stomach, traveling further. She turned her head aside and the water pushed ribbons of hair forward, bowing under the weight of warm falling water. Tendrils slipped from her shoulders like she slipped a finger inside. Her knees trembled as she worked another finger into her wet center. The other hand pressed against the stone wall. She could hear him in her head. The hand against the wall curled into a fist while the other pushed her fingers deeper.

 _John._

Logan squeezed her eyes shut and tried to shake away the man's face from her mind. Between her legs, the pleasure bloomed and throbbed with her heavy heart. Her ears began to burn and her face grew hot as the build came. Around her fingers, she felt the cinching and milking of her walls as she felt the climb.

 _John._

Sucking in a sharp breath, she gasped as the climax shattered her from within. Her knees wobbled and she sank to the shower floor, stifling the stream of noises that threatened to escape her lips. Conflicting emotions poured over her.

 _Lust._

 _Guilt._

 _Shame._

As if nothing had happened, Logan finished showering, dried off and dressed in some loose and comfortable. Fatigue descended upon her like a heavy curtain as soon as she entered her room. Her bed was terribly inviting. Pausing mid-step, she thought of John again and wondered if leaving him alone was a good idea. A yawn came and she tiredly shuffled to her bedside.

From what she observed just moments ago, she shouldn't have to worry. If he needed her, he could find her.

Logan peeled the covers back and crawled into bed. She could still feel the small aftershocks of her orgasm twitching between her legs as she pressed her face into the pillow. Another yawn seized her, filling her lungs and guiding her to sleep.

* * *

 **Before anyone is confused, (because I was) there's Traditional Japanese jujutso and Brazilian jujitsu, also BJJ. BJJ is a newer, more modern sense of close combat but it is heavily influenced by its the original Japanese art, jujutso. Anyway, some trivia told me that was John's fighting style and I'm not one to argue.**

 **Right now my intentions are to form a sort of connection. This might be a slow burn considering John still wears a wedding ring and is determined as shit. I know there are many questions and the answers are well on their way.**

 **HollyHobbit13: not going to lie, after reading your review, I considered going to see it a second time. Did you learn anything new from this one?**

 **Guest(s): Yay! Good!**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Contains spoilers from John Wick 2.**

* * *

When Logan woke, she felt refreshed and well rested. Outside it was dark and without the alarm clock, still left unplugged, the hour was unknown. The bedroom fan spun quietly, sans the soft ticking with every gentle sweep. If she could guess, she'd say it was eleven, maybe even close to midnight. What time did she fall asleep? Did she really sleep over twelve hours?

The overcast that hung over the rolling hill country had passed, opening up into a starry night sky and a thin crescent moon. Southcentral Texas always had erratic weather. Pressure differences brewing over the Gulf held interesting changes for those that resided there.

Sitting up, Logan fought a grimace. She was still sore from the sparring, if that's what you'd call it. Thinking of John brought her eyes towards the bedroom door. She'd been avoiding this moment, but that brought waves of anxiety she was tired of dealing with.

Tossing the covers aside, she slid out and tiptoed to her door. Silence followed as she floated quietly down the hall. A part of her hoped he was sleeping, that he had made himself at home without being told to do so. Logan had never and will never have gracious social cues. Another part of her, a more selfish quality, hoped that he was gone. But the reality was, it was because of John that brought her father back. Should John leave, she feared there would be no reason for Caldron to ever return. This ugly incentive fell heavily on her heart, pushing her steps to move faster with worry. _What if he had left?_

When she reached his end of the hall, just passed the landing, the door was shut. Was he on the other side, sleeping and still here, as she hoped? _Trust but verify_. Her father's phrase lifted her hand as she grasped the knob. The latch clicked, causing Logan to flinch as she eased it open by a sliver. Now that the clouds had dispersed, a small slice of moonlight came through his window, filling the room with a dreamy blue. Even in the shadows, his dark hair could be spotted along a pillow. He was sleeping.

Satisfied, she shut the door and stepped away. The breath she held released slowly and turned from the door. She headed downstairs to clean up the kitchen.

Logan passed the spot along the floor where she'd pinned John. A shattered mug echoed in her head like the ringing he elicited when he cuffed her ear. The fight replayed itself, reminding her of the ache she felt, not from the blows, but from her treacherous body. In the end, she had to get away from him.

Reflecting, Logan pursed her lips shamefully as she entered the kitchen only to discover there was nothing left for her to clean. It had been done already. More shame and foolishness warmed her cheeks. Shame because of her inappropriate actions and foolishness that John was forced to clean _her_ mess. In fact, not only had he cleaned the dishes but found their assigned locations. All without banging around, slamming cabinet doors, or clanking steel. Her stomach flip-flopped nervously. She remembered how it felt to touch herself with him in mind and the swells of conflicting emotions that followed when she came.

Standing still in the dark, staring like an idiot unto the cleaned kitchen, she jumped when a scratching issuance came from the back patio door. Majority of the patio was covered in shadows, but by the backdrop of moonlight, she made out the clear silhouette of an animal. A skunk?

 _No, it was too tall._

A coyote?

The build was thicker than any coyote she'd ever seen and its wagging tail was slender, not bushy like a vermin's.

Logan pulled a nearby drawer open and quietly removed the Sig Sauer P226 from its dwelling. All her life she rocked hammer back, round chambered. Without looking, she knew all she had to do was pull the trigger. This model didn't come with a safety. She approached the back patio, flipping the light switch on. Light washed the patio, shining on a thick muscular build and two beady black eyes that didn't appear threatening. Pitiful, actually. Initially, she had expected the light to scare whatever it was off, but it appeared this pit bull wasn't going anywhere.

It, no, _he_ wagged his tail and sat back onto his haunches. His ears slid back and forth, showing submission and curiosity. He couldn't decide.

Frowning, Logan stared down at the blue nose pit. Her father loved animals. Dogs, mostly. But Logan did not. She was not a fan of pets or anything that eventually died. The last thing she desired was a fondness for something that would leave her in the end. Logan loved her father, loved him deeply. But the idea that inevitably he too would perish and she would be left alone, grief-stricken with reckless abandon, convinced her not to obtain a pet.

Lowering her pistol, she unlocked the back door and cracked it open.

" _Git_!" she spat, stomping her heel painfully against the wooden floor. She hoped the sound would startle him so she wouldn't have to fire a warning round or worse, shoot him. Not that she really cared. Strays had found their way to her house many of times and there was a special spot on the property she buried them. But she always gave them an option: run or die.

The dog flinched but didn't budge, his wagging tail only faltering slightly. He made the decision to stay. Frowning further, Logan tightened her grip on the pistol. Lifting her arm, she backed up just as sudden and unseen force shoved the door open. A figure came charging inside. Their bodies collided, spearing Logan about her midsection and her back met the floor. The wind fled from her lungs, and amidst the scrabbling limbs, weapons, and cursing, Logan finally sucked in a painful gasp of air. A fragrance met her senses. Perfume?

"Where is John Wick?" the assailant hissed angrily as if driven mad with determination. Her intruder was female? The first thing that came to Logan's mind was: _who the fuck is John Wick? Oh!_ _John!_ The clarity struck her as hard as the blow delivered across her temple. The woman, now straddling Logan, leaned down to snarl directly into her face, "Where the fuck is he?"

The thought of him abandoned her just as fast as it arrived. Her Sig. Where was her Sig? Logan kept one fending arm up while the other flailed wildly at her sides, palming the floor for her pistol. The fighting continued but Logan was quicker and stronger than her attacker. Capturing both wrists, she lifted her hips upward and rocked her intruder off balance. The woman rolled to Logan's left and, unable to catch her fall, was successful overthrown.

Following her like she followed John into a full mount, she backhanded the woman. The strike was solid and hard, hard enough crack the woman's nose. A yelp sliced through their grunts and shouts. Something hard brushing her toes. Without taking her eyes from her victim, she snagged the weapon, stuffed the barrel straight into the woman's opened mouth as far as it could go. And fired.

A flash of light escaped the barrel. Warm mist splashed her face and the body fell slack beneath her. _Heavy breathing. A ringing sound that filled her ears. The gunshot snuffed by weighted silence._ The lights in the living room flicked on, revealing the dead body beneath her and all the blood amidst their strife. _On her. The floor. Pooling fast under the assailant's head._ She was young, so young. It'd happened so fast, Logan hadn't time to think. The longer she looked at the woman, the more severe her reality turned.

Logan looked up to find John at the foot of the stairs.

* * *

John had just climbed into bed when the woman woke up. He heard the bedroom door open and a heavy silence after that. She had been asleep all day. Not to mention, behaving oddly. However, he was still trying to understand her character. He didn't know her, not yet. But John knew women, especially of the same professional vein. He knew how they operated and what influenced their behavior. _Money, power controlled by sex, drugs._ It took less than five minutes of being in her living room to realize she was driven by one thing:

 _Her father._

With her somewhat uncommon accomplishments and a single motive, Logan was not the typical _femme fatale_ he had experienced when working. She wasn't _a scorned woman hellbent on revenge._ Just a daughter trying to make her dad proud.

Across the room, his door eased open. He hadn't heard her approach. But as quickly as she arrived, she left, shutting the door and where she went after that, he presumed her bedroom. A recent transgression in New York drove him out of the state. He wouldn't consider it fleeing, but it was starting to look that way. Wihtout a car, a home, and allies dwindling with every passing second, he made a brass decision and called an old friend.

Absentmindedly, he thumbed the wedding band along his ring finger. What he did have was a Marker, provided by Winston just an hour before he elected John _excommunicado._ At one point, he had a dog, but a run in on the outskirts of New Jersey had separated them somehow and he was alone again. Now, a heavy international bounty hung over his head. People were looking for him. Thousands, maybe millions.

 _"I'll kill them... I'll kill them all.."_

John dragged a hand down his face. This was only the beginning and it was going to get worse. Still, he did not regret his decision killing on Continental ground. Using the Marker provided by Winston to his advantage, he reached out and far back into his history. Caldron Ryder was a man he met just before John met Helen, before everything. Where John was on his first and only engagement, Caldron was on his third. They met eye to eye on many things, but Caldron was not nearly as deep into the underground as John. Before, he was in the private military sector, conducting mostly in the Middle East and a few times off the coast of Africa, fighting Yemen pirates. So when-

 _Shouts. From the bottom floor._

Snapping free of his dark, and rather ironic, past, John lifted his head to listen. It grew louder in volume and tenacity, splitting into two voices.

 _Logan._

Throwing the covers back, John jumped to his feet and hurried for the door. Flying around the corner, he took the stairs quickly down, pushing through the pain flaring around his stitches and abrasions. Just as he reached the foot of the stairs, a gun went off and a muzzle flashed.

Unarmed, John halted. In the heavy silence that followed the gunshot, he heard Logan panting. Reaching over, he flipped on the living room light, spotting the top of her head across the room just before the patio door. It hung open, allowing the cool night air to waft in the smell of blood. Logan looked up wide eyes, but he couldn't see much else, not over the couch that separated them.

He took a step and stopped just as something small and dark wiggled out from beneath the coffee table. A pit bull rushed to his side. _His_ pit bull.

 _But how?_

Upon spotting John, the dog yipped and cried excitedly, bouncing on his stubby legs and wagging with such fervor, it shook his entire body.

Ignoring the dog, he walked around the couch and the scene of blood and death unfolded before him. Logan was wearing nothing but a large t-shirt that fell down just past her hips. Fine blood spatter had landed on her bared thighs, her large shirt, and her face. Her brown hair was in tangles around her shoulders. In her right hand was a Sig Sauer P226 Legion grey 45 S&W pistol. Double stack. Double action. A pricey gun for such a small situation, he thought. He studied the woman's face, how her mouth was open wide either from a scream or... Logan had stuffed the barrel into her mouth.

The pooling blood, a thick, crimson halo beneath the woman's head now caught the living rooms lights. His dog brushed his ankle and whined.

"You must be John Wick." Weary from the fight, Logan was breathless, working her lungs to come down from the adrenaline surging through her.

"I am," he said, studying the slack intruder.

She looked down at the dead body, gesturing. "She was looking for you."

"I know." He watched her stand and look round at her arms, and legs, assessing where the blood had landed and where it did not.

John waited, preparing him for the reality of her actions to sink in and hysteria to follow. She turned to shut the patio door, locking it and drawing the blinds down. When she looked back at him, she exhaled. He could see the subtle tremor along her shoulders with every measured breath dragged through her lungs. He assumed it was possibly her first kill. It had been quite some time since he felt that surge. Killing was an extension of him, like the sound of his voice or the color of his skin. He was born into it. The rapid heartbeat. The tingling limbs and pupil dilation. He lost that feeling years ago.

When it was clear Logan wasn't going to spiral into a panic attack or call the cops, John came to kneel beside the corpse.

"Who is she?" Logan asked, keeping her distance.

"That's what I'm trying to find out," he muttered.

Setting down the weapon, she disappeared into the kitchen. While she rummaged, he pulled up the ski mask, revealing a woman who looked younger than Logan. Dark hair, heavy makeup. Familiar, in a way, but John was certain he had never seen her before. He checked her pockets for a wallet and cell phone, both told him she was related to Ms. Perkins. A sister, maybe a cousin to the assassin he once knew. Like John, Perkins had conducted business on Continental ground, business involving him nonetheless. Her death was inevitable but not by his hands. Winston, the owner of the establishment and fellow businessman, spared John with a grace period of one hour. Perkins was not offered such convenience.

He flipped through the pictures on her cell phone.

Nightlife. Self-portraits. A livelihood of vodka, sequins, and sex. But nothing revealed to him she was a hitman or even close to such a profession.

 _Cannon fodder_. Someone must have sent her as a test, to see how close she could get. More than likely convinced her John had killed Ms. Perkins; _a scorned woman hellbent on revenge._ There were too many people hunting him to decide who was responsible.

But, at the very least, they knew he was in Texas.

And this was only the beginning.

* * *

 **HollyHobbit13: I took your advice! As you can see, haha! I went with the translation because, well, I feared the title may divert readers, but you are right; it _is_ a huge part of John Wick and should be recognized. So thank you. Also, I wrote John's POV like you requested (did I bomb it?). You really are a great help for me and never think you are overstepping your bounds. **

**Iona: You're welcome! Thank you for reading and reviewing!**

 **Guest(s): Oooof! You guys are too kind!**

 **Thank you for reading/reviewing, as always.**


	5. Chapter 5

When Logan returned, she had a bucket, several scrub brushes, bleach, and an old bed sheet. The longer blood sat on the floor, the more difficult it would become to clean it up. With wood being absorbent, she feared it'd soak passed the polish, stain the floor, and later have to rip up the floorboards. Of all the things she could have worried about, the floor had taken priority.

Spreading out the bed sheet, she got everything ready to move the body while John sifted through a phone he'd discovered. Logan took this moment of distraction to study him. Just last night, he arrived drenched and in dire straits. Now, it was different. The weakness had diminished; the pain across a terse brow, as if it never happened. If she hadn't known any better, if she hadn't seen the amount of blood she administered as he slept, she'd assume he had a rough night, maybe a hangover. Also, how was he not affected by the dead body at both of their feet? He was barely moved by the corpse or the coppery smell that assaulted the air. Was the corpse merely another object in the house, no more significant than the coffee table or a light fixture? Moreover, _who the fuck is John Wick?_ What man had her father delivered to her?

Chills raced over her shoulders and she found herself wanting to look at his face. The cuts had been cleaned, small neat nicks from a sharp blade. There was also a slit across the bridge of his nose. Someone must have head butted him. He still wore her father's t-shirt and suddenly she was uncomfortable with that. The next time she headed to the city—which would be in the morning since she had work—she'd buy him something else to wear. Anything but her father's clothes. After the other night in the shower, it seemed inappropriate and weird.

A quick refraction of light caught by the moonshine snatched Logan's attention from his face to his hand. _A ring._ Her mouth went dry and she blinked, stepping back as if the discovery startled her. _He's married? What did his wife think of him being here? Where was she now? Did Caldron leave to go obtain her?_

She blinked again and something began to hurt, a sort of wrenching in her chest as she stared at the tungsten band. Logan tried to swallow the tightness building in her throat, to pretend that it wasn't there, that she wasn't disappointed with the discovery. Where was the wife then? Foolishly, as if the woman had been there the entire time and had gone unnoticed, Logan glanced around the living room. It was empty, of course. She looked back at John flicking the tip of his thumb across the illuminated screen.

 _This shouldn't be happening._ There was a dead woman at her feet. _A dead woman._ A woman Logan had shot and killed. She didn't think about asking questions either, that never even crossed her mind. Nothing did at the time, because it had happened so fast. Even the gun fire still rang vividly in her head, reminding her how quick and fleeting life could be, reminding her why she never had pets.

Everything dies. Everything. _Everyone._

A pool of blood, black as ink, blooming like a fresh rose across the hardwood floor and despite all these things...

She couldn't tear her eyes away from the wedding ring on John Wick's hand.

* * *

After they cleaned the floor, wrapped the body in the bed sheet, John went outside to burn the corpse and Logan went to her room upstairs.

From the second floor, Logan observed him from her bedroom window. Down below, just before the precipice descended towards the valley beneath, John stood at the foot of a wealthy fire. Strewn across the flames was the body and at his side, that newly acquired dog. She found it odd how fond they were suddenly of each other. Perhaps she was no better than the four legged beast when it came to John Wick. Except this affinity was so one-sided, it was pitiful.

Uncrossing her arms, she turned away from the window and picked up her cell phone.

Dialing her father's number would be in vain, but now the questions were becoming a burden. This was her house. She had the right to know who John Wick was, why a woman came bursting inside, threatening Logan's life for the location of his. If there were more after him, and therefore her, she needed answers.

It rang. Returning to her window, John still stood before the dancing blaze. Embers rose with the curling smoke, floating and drifting against the violet night.

"Hello?" It was Caldron's business voice, deep and shamelessly Texan.

Logan nearly choked, she was so surprised he answered.

"Dad?"

"Hey baby girl!" he drawled, swapping to his personal voice, softer than the tenors of a Blackwater mercenary. There was even a smile denoted within his parlance.

"Who is John Wick?" She went straight for the kill like shoving a barrel directly into someone's mouth.

A beat passed. No reply, only static.

"Dad," she said again more firmly, " _Who is John Wick_?" Pulling the phone away, she checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped. By doing so, she also read the time. 0115. She brought the phone back to her ear.

"John is a friend of mine," her father said calmly.

In the dim light, Logan narrowed her eyes. That obviously wasn't enough. She could have guessed that on her own.

"What kind of friend?" she pressed, "You said he wasn't from Blackwater. What about Triple Canopy? DynCorp?"

"No and no, Logan."

"Then who is he!" she shrieked, realizing his disinclination to provide answers. "Because I just shot a woman in the fucking face for him!"

 _For him._

She didn't mean to make it sound so intimate, so personal. Emotions within her were in overdrive, burning her chest with anger as she desperately sought answers. Was she upset about the death? It wasn't her first kill, no. She flew attack helicopters, her body count was staggering, but it was the first personal kill. A kill where she felt her victim fall lifeless and still beneath her. A death that showed her _exactly_ how it took place.

Silence unfolded between them. A subtle tremor then took over her limbs, prickling her skin. A side effect when she became too excited or nervous, or an emotion was too extreme to physically withstand. The anticipating was starting to overwhelm her. It was getting late and she had work in the morning. It took two hours to drive to Austin.

A defeated sigh came from her father's end. Logan perked up, becoming hopeful.

"The men who attacked your mother," Caldron began. Logan quickly sat down on the edge of her bed, away from the window and the distraction outside. "They beat her, robbed her, took her wallet, her car. And, if I hadn't found her, they would have taken her life. As you know, she was pregnant with you at the time."

Logan swallowed, pressing the hot phone to her ear firmly, afraid of missing any detail on the attack. He had never fully told her the story and all her life she had feared he was the culprit. That never stopped her from loving him though. Somewhere within herself, she knew he withheld the truth for her sake. Caldron was an operator. A man who protected others, even military. He hunted high value targets, rescued kidnapped civilians, and helped established diplomacy where need be. If he killed those men who hurt her mom, that was okay. Logan understood that. _Why would that be so difficult to tell her?_

"I would have done it myself if the Marines hadn't needed me overseas," he continued, eliminating her suspicion, "But I needed to make sure you and your mother would be safe. There was a risk they'd come back and finish the job." He paused, took a deep breath. "You had just been born, Logan. Y'all were both in such fragile states. I was angry. I'm sorry."

Taken aback, Logan was confused. _Why was he apologizing?_

"You had John kill them?" she practically guessed, making sure she was stumbling upon the right page.

"Yes."

"To protect Mom and me?"

"I had to."

This didn't explain why John Wick was now living in her house, helping hide dead bodies, and toting a dog around. She remembered the large wooden trunk. It hadn't been down there when she woke. Just another thing to add to her questions.

"Okay," she said quickly. "Were you even listening? None of this explains why a woman just broke into my house. Where does that play into this? You said people are after him. What kind of people?"

"Everyone, Logan. Crime lords. Drug lords," he sighed and the sound filled her ear like a pressing weight. "There's an international bounty on his head."

Logan blinked incredulously, allowing the words and their significance to sink.

"And you're just _now_ telling me!" Her voice became shrill. "I haven't heard from you in three fucking years! And one night you come home, dump off a fucking _hitman_ who has _Hell_ coming after him! At not just any house!" She was shouting now, rising to her feet. "But your daughter's! If people are after him, how is this protecting me? Now _I'm_ in danger!" The words spilled from her lips at such a rate, she was flushed and breathless.

Panic now reigned her senses. The proverbial knot returned to cinch her throat. She palmed her forehead, trying to clear her thoughts as she paced her room. Caldron waited for her to calm down before speaking again.

"It was my last resort. The house has everything he needs," he chuckled. "It even has a helicopter pilot."

He meant it as a joke, to lighten to mood, but it was the tipping point for Logan.

"Fuck you." her voice trembled, becoming soft and low. "Fuck you for bringing me into this, after all this time. I don't give a shit who the fuck," she made her voice whiny, " _John Wick_ is. I don't want him here!"

Furious, she hung up and cast her phone aside.

Logan had been pacing and when she spun around, John was standing in her doorway.

 _How long had he been standing there and how much had he heard?_

It didn't matter, she realized quickly. What she said was true and if he'd heard, maybe he would leave. Better to die out there then here, where he could drag her to her grave.

Closing her eyes, Logan gripped the back of her neck and gave a firm squeeze. The pain responded, prodding her already heated demeanor like a hot poker. It was now two in the morning. The commute to work was a minimum of two hours in ideal conditions. But no drive to the city was ideal. It was perpetual traffic.

John reached down and gave the dog a gentle pat, who thumped his tail against the floor. In the quiet dark, they regarded each other. She didn't know him, didn't want to know him. In fact, maybe she even went as far as hating him. If it wasn't for his crime-riddled past, he wouldn't have needed Caldron's help and therefore, wouldn't be here now, staring at her from the doorway, looking and smelling like the Devil himself.

 _But_ , a tiny voice came, _if it hadn't been for John, who's to say you would've ever seen your father again?_ How pathetic and outrageous that _this_ is what it took to bring her father back. Spite stirred in her gut, reminding Logan of his father's helicopter comment. She was a pilot, but not a civilian pilot. If he had presence in the last three years, that would not be a mystery to him.

"Thank you for not shooting him." John said with a voice as smooth and languid as lapping flame. It only reminded Logan how far she shoved the barrel into the girl's mouth. The smell of gunpowder and then blood. The ringing in her ears, how the pistol bucked in her hand when she pulled the trigger. She had every intention killing that dog. He had decided that for her by staying.

Logan didn't say anything. She was out of words for the night and still fuming over the conversation with Caldron. The frustration she had accumulated over the three years came out as festered anger laced in sheer spite. A part of Logan wanted him to return her call just so she could hang up on him a second time. The other, more forgiving part, wanted to apologize and admit she'd gotten out of hand.

Logan sighed heavily.

"You're welcome," she said finally. How he assumed this was beyond her. It was just a dog. Of course, now that John was here, she wanted some sort of establishment between them. At the very least, she wanted to know what to expect. However, it was getting late and Logan couldn't get out of work a second time. It'd have to wait.

Moving towards the door with intent of ending whatever discussion brewed, she imagined slamming the door in his face. It would be rude, but it would also be satisfying. There was some degree of hate for John, there truly was. The way the cuts and bruises some how complimented the structure of his face. His trimmed beard and brown eyes, so dark and smoldering, they were almost black. Then there's the perfect parted hair just above a faint widow's peak. The way his voice was low and relaxed, calculated and precise. Not a vowel or syllable was squandered or misused.

And most of all, she hated how married he was.

Reaching out, she grabbed the side of her door and went to shut it. John, with the speed of a striking serpent, stopped the door with his palm and forearm.

"Logan," he whispered carefully, the tension rising between man and woman. It was the first time he'd spoken her name.

"We need to talk."

* * *

 **Oooof! John Wick, y'all! *wags eyebrows***

 **HollyHobbit13: Hahahah! I promise nothing bad will happen to the dog! You have my word.**

 **Guest(s): I'll admit, writing for John was different but I'm glad you still enjoyed it! I guess I'll have to keep stepping into his shoes!**


	6. Chapter 6

"I feel as if we got off on the wrong foot," John muttered. The hand she wrapped around the edge of the door squeezed until her knuckles ached. She hadn't the time nor patience for another talk, even despite how mysterious John had made himself appear. That same discomfort she had felt the first day they met had also returned. What could he possibly have to say to her?

"It'll have to wait until tomorrow," she told him, finding her voice through the residual anger and yanking at the door a second time.

"No," John responded tightly, shoving against the door. "It can't." It slipped from her grasp, slamming against the wall with enough impact to rattle the door against its hinges. Within her ribs, Logan's heart knocked painfully. She stepped back at the same time John stepped in. Behind him, the door began to shut. A ripple of uneasiness coursed through her. Intimidation. Apprehension. Concern. A maelstrom of emotions ebbed and flowed as Logan watched John enter her room.

Maybe she had it all wrong. Maybe she should have been more careful, more keen at his behavior instead of chalking him up merely taciturn and critical.

"Okay," she placated. Her eyes were wide, hands up, taking in everything that John Wick had suddenly warped into. Yes, her idea of him was skewered and all wrong. He was much more complex than she had led herself to believe.

He shut the door and Logan backed up until her legs brushed the edge of her bed. The lights in her room were out. The only source of illumination was brought by moonlight and that seemed to heighten the formidable man. On the other side of the door, she heard the short scratching of nails retreat down the hall. Even the dog had left her.

"Have a seat." John said.

It was an order. He declared this house his. Logan was no longer, perhaps never had been, in charge. Defiance reared an ugly head, but for the first time, she felt it best to swallow the disdain. Even if she did challenge him, her voice would certainly betray her and they had already sparred once. The only reason Logan had a moment's advantage was due to his fatigue and physical limitations.

With a quickened heart, she obeyed but not before flicking on the lamp to ward off the pressing shadows and dreary blue.

John didn't sit. He didn't pace. He stared at the lamp before resting his gaze onto Logan.

In no rush to speak, a long, deafening silence filled the air. Logan's thoughts were screaming as hers nerves split and frayed anxiously. The lamp on the left flickered causing her to flinch. She dropped her eyes into her lap where her hands clutched the edge of the bed, bookending her legs.

 _What had gotten into her?_ John was just a man. One, solitary man.

A beat later, John spoke.

"I know you're trying to understand." The words were calmly delivered. The voice deep, inflection steady. "But I need your father's help."

That wasn't what she was anticipating him to say. Keeping her eyes lowered, Logan stared into her lap. It seemed the side of her body nearest to John tingled, bristling the skin. _A flared cobra, quiet, prepared to strike_. Between her shoulders, a tension started to burn and she forced herself to relax and to listen carefully to what the man wanted to say.

"I was offered a proposition by your father if I took care of some men," he paused. "In turn, we made a deal."

The bed moved beneath her as John sat down. Through her peripheral, she could see he was looking at her. Logan gave herself a moment to suppress a shudder before meeting his stare.

"I-." He stopped short, folding his hands together, deliberating. He was so close to her, she could see flecks of gray in his beard captured by the lamplight. John had remained impassive until now. What she saw in this moment was a man, broken and tired, trying to pick up whatever pieces remained. _A glinting ring._ A shining reminder her that he was not her's to save. As if John Wick would ever be in need of saving.

"I have a dog," he added, "And nothing else."

Logan glanced at the ring. Taking the plunge, she asked, "Where is your wife?"

Another beat. His expression darkened.

"She's gone; an illness took her."

Logan was relieved to hear something other than John's corrupt past had taken his wife, as cruel as that may sound. He was running from that very past, that much was evident. A shiver crept over her shoulders, racing down her spine and dispersing deep into her belly. Her eyes were burning and she blinked rapidly to relieve them. This was the most she had heard from him. She wanted to know more about his late wife but it was evident the wounds were still fresh and she didn't want to prod.

There was a lot of things to consider. She might be an asset to John or she might not be. Perhaps all the training she had accomplished could now be of use. It wasn't as if Caldron was making any effort to see that she remained prepared at a moments notice. Her father would not have brought the man here if he wasn't concerned about him, which in turn, should make Logan concerned. Unfortunately, she wasn't as good-natured and warm-hearted as her father, but she could at least try.

"You helped my father," she began, testing the waters, making sure she was up to speed. He gave her a subtle nod. "Because of this, he now owes you." She pictured her mother, beaten and bruised, barely able to see, walk, or eat. Holding Logan, born three weeks too soon. Logan swallowed, taking a deep, clearing breath. "So something happened to you in New York," she went on, watching his expression lest she make a mistake. "And you fled to Texas?"

"I killed a man on Continental ground." he said plainly as if she understood such a reference. "I broke a code."

"Okay," Logan blinked, throwing her hands out. "I don't know what any of that means, but these people that are coming after you. Is there a lot?"

"Quite."

"What about the dog?"

"He's mine."

"From New York?"

He paused. "Yeah."

"But how?"

"I don't know."

A wave of silence followed as Logan considered every aspect. John was watching her. Thoughts of her father, her childhood, her singular upbringing came to forefront of her mind. Logan meant _hollow_. All her life she tried filling herself with purpose and tasks that would make her father proud. What use was that now? He left her and only returned because his buddy was having a bad day. Perhaps now was her chance to stretch her wings, lift her feet and fly until death came for her soul. Caldron had left John here because he knew he was safe. Whether it be by the design of the house, the excess of weaponry and firearms, or because of Logan herself, she didn't know. Though, to hold herself in such a high regard was silly. She was confident, but not _that_ confident. With Logan however, they had aerial superiority—one more chess piece they could play. That's to say the game really was as big as it sounded. But how deep did her father's network really go? He was just one man.

 _But so was John and the world was apparently coming after him._

Logan shook her head. Things were becoming too complicated the further she thought it through. That kind of planning would have to come later and with her father's aid. Right now, she felt like not _only_ did her father owe John, but she did, as well. And to think, the whole time she had behaved like a bitter bitch towards him.

"Alright," her voice was soft but assured, sitting up straight. "I want to help."

In whatever way she could, she would help him. But only because she knew that is what Caldron would want of her. Not because she found John Wick _disgustingly_ handsome or that he intimidated her, but because it gave her another chance to make her father proud. Perhaps, if her efforts were successful, they could put all of this behind them and return as a family. Jennifer included.

With a solemn nod, John muttered, "Thanks."

She contemplated a moment, reached out then and took his hand, drawing it into her lap. John was rigid at first, but eventually obliged her. She turned his hand so that it faced palm up and touched the warm metal of his wedding ring. When she glanced up to meet his eyes, they were steady, unwavering. Grasping him gently by the forearm, she pulled him to her. He followed and she met him half way, bringing her arms around his shoulder and taking him into an embrace. It took a moment, but he brought an arm around, palming her back. He leaned into her, turning his head until she felt his breath caress her hair.

Logan didn't know loss in the fashion that he did. She knew pain on a physically level, and though she was sometimes wrought with emotion when it came to her father, she still had him, alive and well. The emotional pain John suffered from was foreign to Logan. Caldron was the only person she cared for but at least death had not yet claimed him.

Though it was a simple hug, the proximity had Logan's heart in leaps and bound.

Inside her chest, her heart thundered so loud, she was certain John could hear it.

* * *

When John returned to his bedroom, he allowed a moment to breathe easy. Albeit the odds were still not good, they were at least a degree better than before. Looking down, he stared at the wedding ring on his finger, thinking of how all things to wonder, Logan wondered about this. How long did he plan on doing it? Was it something he would take to the grave? Until now, he hadn't thought beyond that or concluded an alternative should he survive. Decidedly, if it ever reached an end and he did survive, beyond his mourning, it was something to consider.

 _What would Helen want?_

His hand curled into a fist.

Shutting his bedroom door, he tapped the soft comforter and his dog leaped onto the bed.

"Come here," he whispered, sitting down. The dog scampered closer. His tail swinging left and right as he stepped awkwardly into John's lap, lifting his large head to lick his cheek.

 _"My daughter's complicated." Caldron said over the roaring rain that fell in sheets, battering the truck while the wipers moved swiftly across the windshield. A flicker of lightning flashed over the interstate as John Wick and Caldron Ryder flew towards their destination. "She won't be a problem though."_

But she had been and, until just now, he wanted to get rid of her.

Caldron had been right. Complicated and then some. Who knew twenty-five years later, the agreement that had been made, would involve the very thing he had protected?

Funny how things work like that. He brushed the animal's ears playfully.

* * *

 **I know Holly, before you yell at me, there's another chapter I will be posting today (Sat. 25th) I HAD to break them apart. The word count was nearly 5k, and I don't know about yall, but that's too many damn words for one sitting.**

 **To my fellow Texan!: Thank you for that astounding review. I saw it this morning and jolted awake hahah! I'm afraid to name the dog. I just hate referring to him as 'The Dog' but we'll see.**

 **Iona: Was it believable? I try not to impose my opinions/belief/reactions into the story, but I kind of had to right there. I would be pissed!**

 **Shells & Bells: I'm so happy you are enjoying it! I'm having a blast, too!**

 **Guest(s): Thank you for your reviews!**


	7. Chapter 7

**foreword: I've been having some trouble with FF lately, saving docs and submitting this particular chapter. For those of you who know, seven went up and came right back down. So if you read it, consider it null and void. I was having so much trouble that day with the website, I didn't want to risk further errors**.

please enjoy!

* * *

Caldron Wayne Ryder reclined against the leather couch and brought a glass of bourbon to his lips. He took a slow sip, reveling that, in all his years, it still took his breath away. Across from him, disheveled, grief-stricken, and bereft as they come, sat John Wick. The men were taking refuge from the pressing heat and seeking solace within each other's quiet company.

Externally, the man was unreadable but Caldron old eyes were keen to telltale signatures of hardships. Cradled in John's hands his glass of bourbon and at his feet a pup, more of a grown dog but in Caldron's eyes every dog was a puppy. Caldron knew throughout his years the time would come. A time when John Wick emerged from the metaphorical grave and called for Caldron's help. In truth, he knew such an occasion would never be advantageous. John's wake was one of crime and corruption, money over lives, and secrets that could be sold, borrowed and buried. The death toll ever rising and it was only a 9-5 for his friend.

In more ways than one, the men shared similarities.

Before John turned to the underground and became the infamous _Baba Yaga_ , both men had enlisted into the Marine Corps.

Caldron was a part of 3rd Marine Division, 4th Marine Regiment as Force Recon, stationed out of Japan. John was also 3rd Marine Division, but 3rd Regiment as an infantryman based out of Hawaii. A work up brought the regiments together and one morning during PT between 3rd and 4th, their paths crossed. In a manner of jest, 3rd regiment infantrymen sought to spar with 4th regiment Force Recon during a combative course. John and Caldron were unwittingly pitted against one another. Caldron's 6'4", 210 mammoth frame should have been advantageous over John's two inch shorter, 30 lbs lighter build. A special forces Marine against a grunt. Though Caldron feigns memory loss, all of 3rd Marine Division clearly recalls the day a grunt conquered a Recon Marine; the newly humbled Staff Sergeant Ryder and Staff Sergeant Wick forged ―in addition to an easy camaraderie from the encounter, as many Marines do― a lasting friendship.

They eventually parted ways and not long thereafter, John did not reenlist. For Caldron, John leaving the Marine Corps was a shock. When they met, the man was an E-6 and barely twenty, a feat unheard of in the Corps. John climbed the ranks so quickly, he made well-seasoned men, like Caldron himself, appear lackadaisical. He also parted with no goodbyes as most do. Neither was there celebration for his new career path though, no one knew what he left the Corps for and why so suddenly.

Shortly after, Caldron did the same―leaving the Marines, but not the war. Contracted with Blackwater, a private military sector based along the east coast, Caldron worked security details and kept eyes on war criminals. The substantial pay increase and the rules of engagement were far less restricting than those of the Department of Defense. Caldron thrived in the worst possible way.

Swirling the amber liquid around, he tossed the remaining bourbon back, and stood. As he moved towards the wet bar, John handed Caldron his empty glass.

In the Corps, John Wick was a man of few words; that should have been Caldron's first warning when they entered the fighting pit together. In the twenty-six years that passed, John had not changed. Still slow to anger, and possessing a certain audacity about him, he rarely raised his voice, even when matters became climactic ― always in control. He wished he had that kind of power over his emotions.

For both men, the Marines were not enough. They parted ways and as each man found footing in their careers, communication slowed to a stop. However, fortune did not favor Caldron; married less than a year, Jennifer was alone when their home was robbed. Caldron discovered his heavily pregnant wife lying at the foot of the stairs, severely beaten and barely breathing. Though she survived the terrifying experience, it was nothing short of a miracle. Placed on a gurney and whisked away behind closed doors, hospital security staff prevented Caldron from following; four burly guards warily and sternly directed the mountain of a man to busy waiting room.

Barely keeping his rage in check, Caldron berated himself. _How could this have happened? Why hadn't he given her the means to defend herself?_ Anxiously and impatiently, he waited for word of Jennifer's condition, his mind reeling with unanswered questions: _"Why her - why now?!"_

Too soon, a Nurse arrived, her troubled yet sympathetic expression sending his anxiety level to soar, his heart, already leaded with guilt, began to pound. She guided him into a private conference room, gently requesting he sit down; Caldron remained standing. His mind was having difficulty processing her calmly and gravely spoken words.

"Doctors and nurses are working to stabilize her. The physical and emotional trauma induced preterm labor; your baby is on the way..." Intimidated by his fierce countenance and large hands balled into meaty fists, she hesitantly continued, "Your wife may not make it."

Caldron's face immediately drained of blood as the room began to spin; alarmed, the Nurse helped the large man into the nearest chair.

"Is there anyone I can call for you...?"

In the end, her condition critical and prognosis deemed guarded, Jennifer gave birth.

Caldron couldn't recall the number of days they spent in the hospital. It all felt like a blur. While the police ensued an investigation, Caldron began to plot. No man, in any circumstance, would be granted any degree of pardon after breaking into his home and hurting his wife and child. His history was founded on violence and combat. He had every intention to use it to its full potential.

The more he deliberated, the more insatiable his blood lust grew.

Being thrown in prison was not enough to satisfy Caldron. More must've been done. He wanted to make a statement.

Unable to leave Jennifer's bedside, Caldron was asleep when a nurse came rushing into the hospital room, startling him and his sedated wife. Had John Wick not been immediate to follow, Caldron would have erupted in fury and thrown the woman out.

 _"Mr. Ryder, I told him you didn't want any visitors!" she claimed._

Stunned, Caldron looked as if he'd seen a ghost; he could not find the words to speak, much less move from his chair. His friend was alive - after these years; Caldron finally found his voice.

 _"What are you doing here?"_

 _"Just checkin' up on an old friend."_ John muttered, as if word of Caldron's misfortune had funneled down to the infamous underground.

Caldron considered this, deliberating. How many years had it been, he wondered, studying the familiar stranger before him. John Wick bore no resemblance to the young buck Caldron knew from Corps; gone was the clean shaven face and the high-and-tight. John's still jet-black hair was much longer, his lean face sporting facial hair.

The sun hid behind the clouds, casting Jennifer's room into shadow as Caldron studied his old friend. Decidedly, John Wick was different; there was something else, something intangible ... a guarded hardness in his eyes that drove into Caldron with unnerving focus.

Out of pride and privacy, Caldron had ordered the staff to restrict visitors. Having nearly lost his wife and child in the same breath, Caldron was wrought with a maelstrom of festering emotions. It felt as if grief was waiting for that infinitesimal moment to sweep in and claim his family, leave him to empty ruins. He abhorred the thought of any of his friends witnessing him in such a state, but seeing John changed that. Caldron realized he did not want to be alone.

John Wick's arrival was a mystery at the time.

In the present time, Caldron knew now what brought the man to the hospital and how he came to possess the knowledge. It appeared the roles between the two men were also inadvertently switched; John was now the elite. Caldron, a mere grunt patrolling the war-torn streets.

The questions he had then were nothing short of paltry now. The mystery of John's arrival had long been solved. The man had come to see if his friend needed retribution; the answer was blatantly provided when he saw the state at which Caldron was in.

There was never any confirmation of his suspicions and all his stolen belongings showed upon his doorstep subsequent to their return home.

Atop the trunk was a simple note: _"You owe me." -J.W._

John never gave him a price for his unprecedented services, but Caldron knew in time, he would.

Blackwater and the fabled underground were but separate beasts, they did work in close conjunction of another. The underground being the more merciless vein. More often than not, Blackwater and the like worked beyond the undergound's scope of concerns so such crossroads were frequently avoided.

On rare occasions though, they did meet. Despite the narrow separation and unwonted occurrences between the two, Caldron never saw John, but heard a _great deal_ of his carnage. That he was calculated and merciless. A remarkable savagery hidden behind the collected countenance of a quiet, well-dressed professional.

 _The Baba Yaga,_ he would later learn.

But the fact remained: Caldron owed John and for quite some time. That time had come and as a Texan, as well as a man of his word, he intended to uphold that promise even if he had to rally the entire state for his cause. Caldron knew what it was like to come close to losing everything. As bitter and lingering as grief can be, Caldron had only a small taste.

Unfortunately, for John, the grief had claimed all of his senses, reducing him to turn to Caldron's lasting word.

Caldron withdrew from his reflection, standing before a small wet bar and decanting both John and himself another glass of bourbon. Outside, the Texas heat came as a heavy blanket along the gentle hills of limestone and granite. A mocking bird swooped down for a drowning bug against the surface of Logan's cerulean pool.

The _Baba Yaga_ was backed into a corner, unable to differentiate friend from foe. Trust was costly and Caldron was to tread as lightly as he could until that trust was re-established. The house was picked as John's refuge for more than one reason: It was off-the-grid, self-sustainable, and protected. Comfort was also scarcely populated but was not far from any major cities. San Antonio and Austin were east of Comfort but here, no one knew John.

With John not at his most trusting times―if that had ever been the man's trait, Caldron understood the nature of his paranoia. The world was hunting him. He had been stripped of his resources as the bounty continued to loom ominously over his head; fourteen million dollars for John's life. Though the odds were unfavorably staggering, Caldron knew a great many friends willing to scrap when push came to shove. Texas men with hard hands, hell-bent hearts, and loyalty as strong as any militant brotherhood were at their disposal.

But first, he needed to convince them John was worth fighting for. Being connected to Caldron might not be enough to sway their decision. Texans looked after family and immediate friends. John was not an immediate friend. Perhaps he should consider falling under the latter category, Caldron thought.

"John," he muttered, returning from the wet bar to his seat along the couch, offering John his glass. "I know it was difficult making that call and you have no reason to trust anyone. Not now, but in the long haul, I have a few things in mind that might pull through." He patted his lap and the dog ambled across the cushions to lay against him.

"Until then...," Caldron lifted his glass. John mirroring the gesture.

"To?" John asked.

"Texas."

* * *

With the heat bearing down on her, a pressing ache throbbed behind her eyes as she marched towards her front door.

Behind her as she strode for the door was her father's truck, he had come unannounced and uninvited. The thought alone should have thrilled her, but the circumstances had changed. Caldron wasn't here to see her, his only child. The visit was not for Logan by a long shot and that was fine, truly.

 _It was fine_ , she lied to herself.

Dressed in an multi-camouflaged, government issued flight suit, Logan's dark hair was slicked back and spun into a neat bun. She paused at the door, staring at the knob as she readied herself. The double front door was entirely glass with intricate swirls of wrought iron so she couldn't bide too long; she could be seen. Caldron was unaware Logan had joined the Army. He knew she was a pilot but had taken the college route beforehand, obtaining her license and degree in a civilian field. It was spite that drove her to the recruiter's office three years ago and now the secret was about to be revealed. For a time she had prepared herself for when the moment came. But after so many years, only now had the opportunity presented itself.

Unable to withstand it any longer, she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The last bits of discussion ended as she came through the door. She caught the end end of a toast and then all eyes were on her. Even the stag above the mantle appeared to hold its breath.

Logan paused in the doorway. The Texas heat rolling in, the sun glaring over her shoulder.

 _Behold! Your daughter has signed her life away,_ she wanted to declare facetiously.

A leather cigar chair her father purchased from Fort Worth faced the door and held the first person she made eye contact with: John Wick. Strewn leisurely across the couch was her father with a dog in his lap. He seemed happy to see her, a smile spreading across his face, until he noticed what she was dressed in.

Logan forced herself to look away.

Despite her irritation that he came to visit John instead of her, her father was still her weakness. Logan loved her him more than anything. She couldn't stay mad at him. She would try though.

Tossing her keys into a bowl, she threw her bag along the floor next to her work boots and walked into the kitchen. Holding a certain air, she strode past as if there was nothing peculiar about her arrival or her attire. It was just another day in the Ryder household. Which it was, sans the two men and a dog sitting in her living room.

Drawing the fridge opened, she grabbed a beer, twisted the cap off and took a long, heady pull.

Caldron muttered something in the living room and she brought the butt end of her bottle against the counter hard enough to interrupt his comment without shattering the glass. Her body still retained heat from her drive home, even the flight had been quite stuffy. Her gunner was far too talkative for her liking. _Today was just…_ she sighed.

Twisting in his seat, the leather groaned as Caldron looked over his shoulder towards her.

"What the hell are you wearing?" his Texas lilt carried into the kitchen.

Around the bottle, her hand tightened. _Here it goes._ Caldron was a special forces Marine at one time. He was also highly observant. It wasn't a far feat to assume he'd repelled or, at least, parachuted from every airframe of helicopters and fixed wing that the American military possessed—with the exception of the Apaches and Cobras, of course.

Out of respect for her father, Logan bit back all snide remarks and comments. She had already delivered a few foul things to him over their last conversation in which the consequences had not yet laid claim to her actions. In due time.

"It's a flight suit." she muttered with a certain blasé, focusing on the sweat that ran off the side of the bottle.

A heartbeat passed. She was afraid to glance at John. Caldron was not above making a scene in front of guests.

Logan swallowed thickly. It was loud to her own ears. Her gaze skirted the foot of the stairs where she wanted to run up and take refuge in her bedroom. Unfortunately there was work to be done around the ranch. The traps needed to be checked, her dirt bike needed refueling, and she needed to ensure the property sensors were still functioning after the other night's break-in. Her father knew about the occurrence, but whether there was a plan of action he wished to take, she didn't know. At this point, Logan assumed she would always be the last to know.

"I know what it is," he grumbled. "But why are you wearing it?"

Logan took the bottle, bringing it long neck down and bottom-end up. She chugged the rest, foam and all, before throwing it in the trash. She headed for the garage. Back into the sweltering heat, she marched across her front yard towards the garage that house Caldron's car collection and her dirt bike and several neglected four-wheelers.

From behind, she heard the front door slam; her father was not done with her.

"Logan Michelle!" his authoritative voice barked, spreading out through the oppressive heat. A martin bird darted out of its birdhouse, flying for the tree tops.

Logan slowed to a stop, propping her hands akimbo. When she turned, from the across the lawn, father's face was unmistakably red and terse. Under his disappointed gaze against her spiteful resolute, she felt a tightness swell in her chest, a knot ascend her throat, while the remorseful burn stole her cheeks.

Rigorous training aside, Logan was not immune to human emotion. She still suffered from insecurities like doubt and a worry. In the end, Caldron was her father. The last thing she ever wanted was to deliberately disappoint him. But she was mad, _so mad._ True, it was spite that brought her to that moment before the recruiters office, but not until now had she felt pangs of regret.

In the end, she only wished to make him proud and currently, she had not.

"I'm sorry," she blurted before he could fully reprimand her. His hands fell to his side as Logan lowered her gaze to the ground. Cowboy boots peeked out beneath the frayed ends of his faded blue jeans. He came to her, closing the distance.

"I just," she capsized and the sunshine rippled. The grass of her lawn melded with the large white truck parked next to hers. "I did it out of spite. I missed―"

The words caught in her throat as she tried to force the tears back. It was useless, they broke free from the corners of her eyes.

Logan tried to catch them, to stop them before Caldron could see how upset she was. She also didn't want John seeing her in such a manner. A man with his disposition would see her as emotional and exhausting. In truth, she still wanted to be of use in the eyes of her father and John.

In a heartbeat, her father's arms came around her in a tight embrace, squeezing the air from her lungs, disabling her ability to weep as he held her.

Here was her home, her sanctuary. Where her qualms and questions no longer plagued her. A place where the world could be burning down in a firestorm of sulfur and brimstone but as long as she remained here, her safety was assured.

Logan threw her arms around him, holding herself together by embracing the one person who meant so much to her. She breathed in his cologne, refreshing every memory the scent alone elicited.

"I don't know why you're crying," he huffed nonchalantly, gripping her and giving her a gentle shake. "I didn't raise a crybaby!"

Against the tears, Logan laughed. His arms around her tightened, if it were possible. Like the times she was small, she relaxed her knees, forcing him to hold her up. He swung her around with a grunt and placed her back onto her feet.

"Now c'mon," he chirped, steering her back to the house. "I'm a little ticked off you didn't tell me sooner, but I'm alright with your decision. Are you happy?"

For a moment, Logan wondered how to answer that. Was she happy? She never really thought of it in that way. In a sense, she was content but _was she happy?_

"I am," she muttered with indecision. The hesitation fell onto deaf ears.

"Well, good!" They reached the front door. "Now give John a tour of the house, will you? I'll start cooking."

* * *

Logan lead John throughout the estate while Caldron remained downstairs in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She took John upstairs, showed him the balcony that started at her bedroom and ran a length towards the small reading alcove directly above the patio. John was familiar with his room so she saw it unnecessary. Next she led him to the office where the reading nook resided. The alcove was entirely glass and presented a breathtaking view of the hill country and the wide, blue sky.

"I don't know if you're aware," she said, quietly admiring the stretching land. "But Texas has a little bit of everything." Turning away from the sweeping hills, she lead him back downstairs. He'd seen the kitchen, the dining room, and living room already, but it was underground she was eager to reveal. Altogether, the house offered 4 bedrooms, 5.5 baths, a basement and came to nearly 10,000 square feet.

Reaching the ground floor, she led him behind the creme marble staircase to another shut door. They took the stairs beyond it, descending into the level below. At the bottom was a thick, black vault door. John leaned against the wall as Logan entered the access code. Heavy steel rods disengaged with an audible thud just as a small light turned green above the key panel. Logan grabbed the polished spoke handle and yanked. The heavy door yawned open, allowing Logan and John to slip into impenetrable darkness. Flipping a light switch, a narrow fluorescent light bar across the room flickered on. Before the pair, the soft light illuminated a large cave of weaponry.

Hanging from pegs, the arsenal lined all four walls.

Assault rifles. Shotguns, both tactical and hunting. Break over, over-under, pump and semi-automatic. Pistols, single and double action, some dual. Bolt actions rifles and lever actions rifles. Brands ranging from Glock, Berreta, Benelli, and KELTEC. There was Sig Sauer, Smith & Wesson, Remington, and Ruger. Savages and Henry's. Even the flashier Daniel Defense rifles which attracted the more ostentatious eye. There was hardly a tried and tested manufacturer on the market that the Ryders did not own. Around the floor were ammo cans ranging from smaller calibers such as .22 to larger, more devastating rounds like the .50 BMG.

Lining the room against the walls were large thick tool boxes the size of desks serving as also workbenches where Logan spent her free time tinkering, disassembling, reassembling and modifying when the ranch didn't demand tending to. On a much more discreet level, and mostly just as a hobby, Logan also partook in gunsmithing. In a variety of the drawers were smaller arms, silencers, muzzle brakes/compensators, flash suppressors, and mitigators. Clips, scopes, flip-up sights, holsters in leather or kydex, and pistol grips.

Still reeling from the rekindle of her father's affection, Logan allowed herself to smile. Turning to John, who lingered on the short steps, she gestured to the impeccable array of weaponry.

"Impressive." John muttered, slowly absorbing the collection, but not entirely moved. He seemed distracted.

"Isn't it?" Logan lowered her smile, still a rather guarded person. She wasn't sure how much of herself she was willing to show John, considering there wasn't much he'd shown her. "There's a pantry in the back where we store dry food and non perishables in case of an emergency." She knelt down, picking up a piece of hardware from the floor and placing it on a nearby workbench. "Do you happen to have a favorite?"

"I'm partial for Glocks." he told her.

Logan winced as if she was insulted.

"Glocks?" she scoffed.

Grimacing, John stepped down, still leaning against the wall for support. He started hunching over.

"Are you feeling alright?" Logan furrowed her brow. _Was he about to be sick?_

"Not really," he grunted.

"Here," Logan turned, grabbing a nearby stool and setting it down next to him. "What's wrong? Did your stitches tear?"

"I think so," he sat down, his hand pressing to his side where small flecks of blood soaked through.

Logan went to the pantry room and retrieved a first aid kit they kept down there. When she returned, John had already removed his t-shirt and was investigating the source. Along his back were several tattoos she'd never seen. An assembly of words across his shoulders caught her immediate attention: _Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat_.

With recognition, the phrase was not lost to her; her father had the very same thing tattooed across his chest.

Coming to John's side, she spotted the loosened stitches next to his navel and popped the kit opened. Small trickles of blood ran down, soaking into the hem of his pants. In the blue lighting, the crimson rivulets came as a deep purple.

John lifted his arm as she knelt and began removing the torn sutures. Her curiosity on the steady rise.

"Were you a Marine?" she asked as she pulled the small pieces free with surgical forceps.

"I was."

The tear was nothing severe aside from uncomfortable. Then again, he was so beaten and bruised, she assumed he was aching all over. Upstairs in her bedroom she had pain killers she could give him for the ache. Logan took an alcohol pad and dabbed the site quickly. His torso flexed against the cold, bristling under her touch. Once it dried, she applied iodine and began resuturing the wound. She couldn't help but notice the faint trail of dark hair that led from the bottom of his navel and downward, disappearing beyond the fabric of his pants. She tore away her gaze.

"My father was a Marine, as well." she added, finishing up.

When she stood, John met her eyes. The pale blue light bar across the room barely offered enough illumination and threw layers of shadow over John's expression. Logan felt a quickening beneath her chest. _What was happening to her?_

"That's where I met your father," he explained with a tone so low and sultry, it stirred something deep within Logan. Against the low light and casting shadows, black and abysmal were his eyes; a perpetually unreadable expression. Apart of Logan wanted to crawl into his head and rifle through his secrets. Another part was also afraid of what she might find.

Hexed, she swallowed. The words barely a whisper as they stumbled over her lips. "How old are you?"

John broke eye contact to examine his new sutures, "How old do you think I am?"

Blinking, freed of the immobility that claimed her, Logan took a step back lest he captivate her a second time. She gave his question some thought. Her father was in his mid-fifties. John didn't appear to be that old, even despite the small bit of gray that peppered his beard. Caldron had mentioned John's interference around the time of her birth, that alone made him 26 years older. If he served in the Marines, the youngest he could have joined was 17.

"45?" she guessed carefully.

"Close enough." He placed his shirt back on and stood.

As he moved, Logan took in a deep breath, hoping a scent rolled from John, something she could savor. Instead, she smelled her father's cooking drifting from upstairs into the basement. In response, her stomach gurgled.

"Are you hungry?" she swiftly changed the subject, feeling breathless and confined.

"I am."

That was her cue. Turning away, she drew the door open for him. As he passed, she shut the light off and locked the vault.

* * *

 **A huge thanks to Holly for basically being my editor. I spilled my guts and she eloquently sifted through them. Not all heroes wear capes.**

 **Faedulin: Welcome to the addictive FF world! I'm flattered that this story is what convinced you to join our cult haha! Trust me, I want a steamy, unforgivable session between John and Logan, but I want it to be believable. I feel like John is introverted and so is Logan. Neither would still sling clothes off and have at each other, not without establishing a connection.**

 **together25x3: Thank you so much!**

 **Sylarfan: I'm very glad to hear that. I hope I can continue to deliver an enticing story.**

 **Guest(s): Thank you for the kind reviews, as always!**


	8. Chapter 8

**foreword: this is a rather long chapter, so please do get comfortable and enjoy!**

* * *

In the furthest corner, beneath amber lights tracing dark coffered ceilings, sat a man. Languid piano riffs floated through the historical architect like a rich fragrance, entrancing and hypnotizing. Conversations are hushed; the patrons relaxed, mesmerized by the warm, inviting atmosphere offered by none other than the Continental Hotel.

Winston, owner and proprietor of said establishment, sat alone in his private booth. A smoldering cigar rested in a heavy crystal ashtray; a scotch, neat, sat beside it while a leather bound ledger lay open in his hands. Lifting his blue eyes from its weathered pages, reading glasses perched atop his nose, he watched the man maneuver his way around the tables. Folding the book, Winston sat back and took a sip of his scotch, savoring the smooth taste as the impeccably dressed, dark-skinned man in his late forties reached his booth.

"Good evening, Sir." Charon greeted the Owner.

"Have a seat." Winston murmured.

"Thank you, Sir," Charon sat and laced his long fingers together upon the table.

"I have news." Winston's Concierge and right hand man had proven his uncanny resourcefulness once again; it was but one of his many valuable talents. Winston raised his eyebrows with mild interest.

"You do? Pray, tell."

"Our suspicions are correct; Mr. Wick resides in Texas." His quiet words, elegantly articulated with a charming, lilting accent, were for Winston's ears alone. Winston could not fully suppress the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"How is he?"

"Still alive, Sir. That is all I could gather."

"Excellent." Winston smiled widely.

 _John Wick; a _live.__ His most favorable guest. Such a tragedy business concluded the way it did; as all Assassins knew, they lived by a code. If not for rules, man would be no better than beasts.

 _Speaking of beasts..._

"What news of the dog?" Winston queried. "Was it delivered to him?"

"I believe so; however . . . " Charon paused with disappointment.

Winston found his eyebrows lifting again. That could only mean one thing. "I take it the mini Ms. Perkins did not follow my advice."

"No, sir. She did not." The statement was enough; the girl was dead, despite his strict instructions to deliver the dog and _nothing_ else. She'd come to the Continental one day, asking after her older sister; if Winston had to guess, the younger Perkins could not have been older than twenty two. When Charon located John's dog wandering the outskirts of New Jersey, Winston believed her to be the perfect candidate for the task: unknown and unconnected to the ruthless and unscrupulous denizens patronizing the Continental. Driven to find answers of her missing sister, and foolishly impetuous by nature, the younger Perkins held no connection to the underground sans her late sister. The underworld would not miss - much less look for her; thus, John Wick remained safe at his undisclosed location. As safe as any fugitive could be, while professional killers en masse tirelessly scoured the world for him. Winston's intuition warned him the younger Perkins would not heed his warnings.

The girl was dabbling in affairs dangerously beyond her mental and physical abilities - matters best left to those bereft of conscience and possessing a questionable moral compass. She was but a mere child caught up in the tempestuous whirlwind of her older sister's dark profession. _But_ , Winston sighed, _the apple never does fall far from the tree_. In the end, the younger Perkins stood not a chance against John Wick.

"I warned her, did I not?" Winston murmured; he had to be sure. Picking up his glass of scotch, observing the way the thick liquid listed to the side as he turned it, the older man met the Concierge's steady gaze.

"You did, Sir." Charon affirmed, with a slight tilt of his closely shaven head.

Winston snorted a laugh, his lips twisting into a wry smile as he spoke, "I say … John Wick was never one to kill a woman. Are you _certain_ it was he who ended her?"

"I do not know the exact details," Charon explained, "When I attempted to contact her, the phone line was dead."

"Very well." With a devilish gleam in his eyes, Winston took a swig of his drink, breathing around the scotch's smooth burn.

"Find the last location of activity from her phone. I want to know _exactly_ where Mr. Wick is hiding in this _wild, wild west_ Texas so proudly claims to be."

Charon stood, adjusting the ends and smoothing any wrinkles of his well-tailored suit, "It would be my pleasure, Sir."

* * *

Aurelio was focused on a mangled drive shaft when the chop shop's phone began to ring. Its shrill, insistent report bounced off the aluminum walls, tearing him away from his work. Annoyed, he strode across the stained concrete and plucked the phone from its receiver; leaning against a nearby car, he pressed the phone to his ear.

"This is Aurelio."

"Good evening, Sir." A succinct, accented voice politely replied. "I apologize for calling at this hour. My name is Charon; I am a representative for the Continental Hotel. Are you familiar with the establishment?"

"I am." Aurelio said, his expression knitting with concern.

"Excellent. You have possession of a particular 1969 Mach 1 Mustang in gunmetal black."

"Yeah, well -." Aurelio was becoming more confused as the conversation progressed. "What's this all about? If you're tryin' t'buy the vehicle, it's not for sale," he added quickly.

"No, sir. I wish to pay for the restorations, and then have you personally deliver it to its rightful owner."

"Deliver it..?" Aurelio echoed incredulously. He paused and looked around his shop to ensure he was alone. "Y'mean to John Wick?!"

"Yes, to Mr. Wick." the voice confirmed. Taken aback, Aurelio's mind went blank momentarily. He hadn't expected such a call regarding his old friend.

 _Which meant John Wick was still alive!_

The last news Aurelio heard of his friend, was the man's inevitable sentence of _excommunicado_ from the very syndicate he was now speaking with. John fled the city, as any sane man would, when a lucrative bounty for his life warped into an international manhunt.

"Holy shit..." he breathed. "W-well, where is he? Is he alright?"

"I do not have the details, Sir. I do believe that he is… _alive_ and that his is location resides in south central Texas. Do you agree to the terms I have proposed?"

"Yeah -!" Aurelio blurted. "Yes I'll do it!" Of course he would. John was his _friend_.

"I am very glad to hear. I will make the financial arrangements."

 _Click_

The call ended and Aurelio looked around, finding himself still alone within his chop shop. Mechanically, he replaced the phone onto its receiver. Glancing across the shop, he eyed the mangled drive shaft pulled from a vibrantly red Lotus Spyder; it would have to wait.

Upholstery and carpeting replaced, the interior fully restored, John's Mustang was down to its last repairs. Unsure how soon he'd have to make the long road trip, Aurelio glanced at his wristwatch, then to John's car. The windshield was still smashed and needed replacement. The tires were deflated; save for painting and minor cosmetic repairs, not much else remained to do. He could perform the maintenance alone, but it would take all night. He glanced at his watch again; cursing beneath his breath, Aurelio removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and headed for the gunmetal black Mustang.

* * *

Time passed without further _incident_ at the Ryder residence. With the exception of another person in her home, Logan's daily routine remain unchanged; she worked while John healed. Gunshot wounds required more time to mend than others - aside from fractures and broken bones, which luckily, John did not have. It troubled Logan how her houseguest-turned-roommate wore clothes similar to her father's. In an effort to learn more about the enigmatic man through his clothing and style preference, Logan asked John what he liked to wear.

"Something comfortable."

John's noncommittal, unrevealing answer frustrated her. Given his vague response, Logan purchased clothing she considered fitting for ... _situations_ they may find themselves in. Painfully conscious of the contracted killers relentlessly hunting John Wick, she wanted him comfortable but prepared - and protected. A more selfish portion of Logan also wanted to see how the fabric hung from his hips and across his toned shoulders.

She gathered Undertech gear for holstering weapons, knives, clips and other manufacturer related articles. Considering how _Glock_ was John's weapon of choice, Logan purchased for his wardrobe, several Sig Sauer t-shirts - _her_ weapon of choice. For pants, she selected a variety of khaki, denim, dark blue and black tactical pants, whose pockets and hidden holsters would not hinder full-range mobility. Logan secretly hoped the tactical purchases made on John's behalf were to his liking. In the end though, she could care less, for her objective was for John Wick to be able-bodied, combat ready and appropriately attired with maximum movement.

Logan stood near the edge of the swimming pool while her father tended the grill. Overhead, the bright sun gleamed and danced upon the surface of the rippling pool, while the patient dog sat upon his haunches, licking his chops hopefully at Caldron's feet. The tantalizing aroma of steak and peppers wafted on the warm air.

John stood nearby, gazing at the sloping, limestone hills in the distance, his hands resting in the pockets of his new slacks. Logan studied his tall form; admiring him from afar, she is inordinately pleased with herself. John cleaned up _very_ nicely. Before Logan allowed her thoughts to carve ideas, she tore her a gaze from his dark hair and into the pool. Under a knitted brow, her expression grew pensive; tilting her head, she focused on the water, curiously peering into its depths.

 _Something was at the bottom of the pool._

Narrowing her eyes, she knelt by the edge to get a closer look. Her father glanced up in time to see that something in the pool commanded his daughter's rapt attention.

"What's wrong?" he called, squinting over the smoke rising from the grill, his own curiosity piqued. The dog at his feet whined and swung his tail to and fro, staring eagerly up at Caldron.

"I don't know," she murmured, focusing beyond the water to the bottom of her pool. "I can't tell, but … something's down there."

Caldron set his tongs down and ambled over, drawing a hand towel from across his shoulder to wipe both hands. Logan stood just as he came to her side, her eyes still trained on the water.

"Where?" her father squinted, jutting his head down.

"Don't you see it?" Logan bit her lip to keep from smiling. "It's right there!"

"I don't see anything," he said, frowning; the pool's rippling water and intricate mosaic pattern made it a challenge to find what his daughter discovered.

"What is it?"

"It's you!" She pushed him.

Making sure to trap his feet as she shoved him, Logan pulled away when his arms reached out to grab her; ducking beyond his reach, Caldron fell into the pool with a mighty splash, the water silencing his indignant shouts of protest.

Logan sank to her knees at the poolside, clutching her midsection as a fit of laughter consumed her. She could barely breathe. A dull pain throbbed her side as she tried to collect herself. Her father soon emerged and began to pull himself from the pool on the other side.

"That's how you wanna be?" Caldron huffed, slinging water against the surrounding concrete. Bald head glistening wetly in the sun, his drenched red beard streamed water as he traced the edge of the pool, coming for Logan.

"Wait!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet. She ran in the opposite direction, keeping the pool between them.

"Logan," he said sternly, "Come _here._ "

Keeping a bead on his daughter, he lunged towards the edge of the pool, darting for her. Despite his colossal frame, Caldron was quick and light on his feet, nearly snagging the ends of Logan's flailing arms as she bounded away. For reasons beyond her comprehension, Logan ran straight for John ―as if the man could prevent the inevitable. Giddy with childlike happiness, Logan was focused on evading her father and not much else. Forgotten were her secretly harbored, amorous feelings for John Wick.

Logan threw herself behind him; placing her hands upon his back, she used him as a barrier as she peeked out from behind him. John remained stock still, solid and unmoveable as Logan attempted to maneuver his body as a shield, intent on steering clear of her advancing father. The smell of steaks, onions, and roasted peppers greeted her as she hunkered carefully behind John.

"Don't drag him into this," her father warned. "You brought this upon yourself. John?"

In a blur, before Logan could react, the ground disappeared from beneath her feet. Caught up and wrapped securely in John's arms, he handed her over to her father. Logan could not believe how John quickly and efficiently handled and surrendered her; understanding the _how_ of the puzzling man quickly took a back seat as Logan struggled to escape her inevitable fate. The sounds she emitted were a cross between screams and laughter as she thrashed against her father's unbreakable hold. He slung her over his shoulder holding her securely as he slowly walked towards the pool. Logan's eyes grew larger as the water drew closer; she doubled her efforts; wriggling madly and throwing her legs, she tugged and clawed at Caldron's shirt, wailing like a banshee.

The world pitched.

Logan briefly saw the sun before it spun away, and then - _SPLOOSH!_

She smacked the surface before the water engulfed her, suspending and surrounding her in a cloud of bubbles rushing towards the surface. Logan emerged; coughing and sputtering, hair plastered to her face, she pushed it away; despite herself, she threw her father a smile of pure happiness while Caldron choked with laughter. John came to stand by the pool's edge, and their eyes met. Logan expected to see his usual impassive, sphinxlike mask, the guarded, hardened reserve in John's eyes. For a fleeting moment, his expression was vacant, somehow .. vulnerable.

Her heart quickened in response before her mind caught up to the effects of his stare. Seeing John at his most unguarded moment set a flame in her heart. It was too much, too soon, too … _intimate_ for Logan. She tore her gaze away, once again repressing unprecedented ideas. Sinking beneath the water once more, Logan swam to the other side of the pool and hauled herself out; she refused to look back.

* * *

Working through the night and well into the early morning, Aurelio's highly competent crew slowly trickled in, to discover their boss already hard at work, and they quickly pitched in to help. With their collective efforts, in short order, John's beloved car was sanded, buffed and primed, and then fitted with high performance tires. Given John's location to be somewhere in the vast Texas landscape, the wheels' all-terrain tread are well able to grip asphalt and power through clinging mud, loose gravel, dirt roads and packed clay. The Mustang's new windshield was lowered in place and installed as Aurelio polished off his fourth cup of coffee. With the utmost care, his men moved the vehicle to the painting bay. Pulling on his gear, Aurelio determinedly shook off the mental fog clouding his tired mind; tension, anxiety and anticipation tightened his shoulders, clinging to the base of his neck, yet he smoothly and steadily painted the vehicle its signature gunmetal black.

Unzipping his disposable coveralls, Aurelio removed his breathing respirator and wearily swiped at his burning, red rimmed, bloodshot eyes. Standing back, he rubbed the ache at the nape of his neck. Surveying the results, he allowed himself a tired smile of pride and satisfaction, pleased how the high gloss of the car's fresh paint gleamed beneath the shop's bright lights as it dried.

"All right, guys - nice work! Marshall, bring the curing lamps over and place 'em around this car."

Marshall, wearing blue coveralls soiled with grease and soot, grabbed two curing lamps and brought them as instructed. The lamps were positioned to face the front and rear of the vehicle. A timer was set for three hours, long enough for Aurelio to power nap while his men readied the truck for the road.

Under cover of darkness, Aurelio loaded John Wick's car onto the flatbed of his tow truck, and locked it down before shrouding it with a nondescript tarpaulin, doing his best to disguise its distinctive silhouette. Leaving detailed instructions with Marshall regarding shop affairs―for his crew's safety, a false destination point was given, before Aurelio climbed into the cab and headed southbound.

The drive alone was approximately twenty-seven hours, the route taking him through New Jersey, Philadelphia, a small portion of Delaware, and then into Virginia, before heading over into Tennessee and downward. The sprawling city and bright lights of New York were now behind him, the landscapes and weather conditions changing, and the road stretching ever onward before him, as he drove through the green mountains of Tennessee and passed the rivers of Arkansas.

At length, Aurelio finally reached the state line of Texas; however, seven hours of the journey still remained. Necessary stops to refuel and readjust the tarp, and time for himself to catch some sleep, were kept to the absolute minimum, for Aurelio was anxious to return John's car to him, lest the wrong eyes recognize the infamous vehicle.

From the east and southward direction, Aurelio passed tall pine forest and deciduous groves. Thereafter the land flattened into plains reigned by mesquite trees and thick, deeply rooted oaks. Gentle hills drifted over the horizon after he left Dallas and neared Waco. Hours later, he pierced the edges of Texas' capitol, Austin, and then the navigation system took him due west.

One hour and forty-one minutes remained of his journey. He completed the last stretch of the drive alone; Aurelio was eager to see what brought John Wick to _Texas_.

"Of all the friggin places…!" he muttered in disbelief as the warm wind blew through his gelled hair, his elbow resting along the window frame while he drove on.

Aurelio felt he might as well have driven to Mars. Though Texas offered its share of cities, the land between New York and Texas was dramatically different, and seemed to have no end, stretching indefinitely. The few stops he made, Aurelio found it comical every time he spotted cowboy hats, oversized belt buckles, and boots.

 _Was this place for real_?

The Austin skyline sat on the horizon behind him, leading to wide open ranges, hills and creeks on either of him. Dallas and Austin combined could never equal, or hope to exceed the bright lights of Broadway, or the pulsating, vibrant tempo of New York living.

 _Nothing could compare to home…_

* * *

Aurelio reached Comfort, Texas at dusk, the horizon a rapidly fading silhouette against the burning orange sunset, its fiery edges cooling to a deep, dark blue as twilight heralded the night.

Pulling into the only gas station since leaving Austin, Aurelio parked the tow truck and reached for his cell phone, certain his navigation system led him astray. It indicated he was less than seven minutes away from his destination; looking in both directions, no other car was in sight, the road eerily empty. Large, dry tumbleweeds and prickly cacti stretched in all directions, as far as the eye could see in the fading light..

With his thumb and index fingertip, he zoomed in on the small, blinking indicator, then peered into the gathering darkness. Driving was exhausting enough, scouring the all encompassing dark for a small cabin would be another trial in itself.

Before Aurelio allowed something as insignificant as mind numbing fatigue to spoil his attitude, he thought of his friend, and the dire circumstances placing Aurelio far from home, in vastly unfamiliar territory―alone in his tow truck and parked at a gas station―in the middle of _nowhere_. Tilting his head, Aurelio wearily eyed the '69 Mustang silently waiting atop the flat bed from the rear view mirror. He solemnly reminded himself it was John's favorite car; his _only_ car. Furthermore, the man's life was in literal shambles. A much loved, now deceased wife; his dog, a cherished last gift from her, cruelly killed not long after. John's once peaceful home laid in ruins - destroyed. Blown up with a grenade launcher. And his car ... also destroyed, until Aurelio repaired and restored it to its former glory; hopefully the same can be done for its rightful owner.

And Aurelio sat in his truck, frustrated because he drove from New York to Texas and night had fallen; the bright stars overhead and a dim, flickering neon light of the gas station's ' _closed'_ sign did little to keep the encroaching darkness at bay.

 _Seven minutes_ , he reminded himself.

He'd come this far.

Nightfall aside, if it meant traveling on foot to find John Wick's location, Aurelio was determined to do it.

* * *

Logan stood in the laundry room, closing the dryer door, and pressing the ' _start'_ button; as the machine began to tumble, she closed her eyes and imagined John in his room, putting away his new wardrobe and preparing for bed. Along her shoulders and back lingered a tingling warmth, an affliction elicited by John's touch despite the passing hours. Try as she might to rationalize how their too brief contact profoundly affected her, she simply couldn't; nor could she deny the sudden, keen awareness of his touch and his warmth. She was digging herself deeper into a hole she couldn't recover from; the unwanted, unexpected yet undeniable and growing attraction Logan felt for John Wick would be her undoing, of that she was certain. He was a stranger to her, yet her treacherous heart yearned and ached like a wounded animal, begging to be placed out of its misery. The man still wore his ring … the platinum symbol of her love was still firmly in place, making it quite clear John was not ready to let the memory of his wife go.

It was that simple … John Wick was still in love with his deceased wife…

A small part of her stubbornly clung to that notion; she needed to leave him alone, he was still married. Albeit, he could easily have stepped aside, retreated into the house, or called his dog to him and observed the father and daughter from afar. But he _didn't_ ; instead… Her skin prickled at the fond memory, racing down her spine with exhilaration. Her thoughts were interrupted when the alarm sounded; Logan assumed she mistakenly pressed the wrong button when the first sensor beeped.

 _BEEP!_

Logan turned her head towards the source, a frown knitting her brow.

 _Was that the sensor?_

 _BEEP!_

 _No, it wasn't …!_

Moving quickly, Logan entered the small office space by the dining room where she kept her computer and the camera feeds. Stirring the mouse to awaken the screen, Logan leaned against the desk and peered intently at the night vision displays. A tow truck parked itself outside of the gate. Along the back, covered entirely with a tarp, she made out the shape of a vehicle.

Immediately, Logan thought of her father. Perhaps he had purchased another car to add to his collection.

 _If so, why have it delivered so late - why hadn't Caldron mentioned this?_

Her father was not on site to confirm her suspicions. Both John and Caldron mentioned people, en mass, were looking for him. The initial girl was only a drudge sent to die trial by fire.

Straightening up, she watched a man step out and press the buzzer. Unsure of herself, Logan stilled, staring into the monitors. Perhaps meet him out there? Mindful of the men and women on the hunt for John Wick, Logan had no intentions of allowing the driver access.

 _Not without a gun._

The call tone rang, startling her.

As the shrill sound splintered through the quiet household, Logan deliberated whether or not to answer. Had the time finally arrived for full engagement? If so, Logan was more than ready.

Resolute, she mashed the button and spoke confidently, "Yes?"

"Ugh, good evening!" The voice was loud over the intercom, filling the large living room with an accent not local to Texas, "I'm lookin' for someone who owns this car."

 _A New York accent_.

Upstairs, John's bedroom door opened while Logan's stomach churned with apprehension.

"What's the owner's name?"

Along the feed, the man propped his hands onto his hips, almost pacing with uncertainty. He scratched his chin and threw his hand into the air. "I―well you see, I'm kinda on a covert mission here, alright? I'm lookin' for him. He's been in some trouble and, well, I fixed his car. I wanna tell him it's ready and give it to him in person."

John appeared at the top of the stairs, lured from his bedroom by the voice. He descended the stairs quickly, coming to her side to look into the computer screen.

He took one glanced and muttered, "Let him in."

John was always laconic with his responses. She barely gave herself a second thought.

 _It must be someone he knows and trusts..._

Entering the access code, the gate swung open.

* * *

 **I couldn't do this without help from Holly, holy crap!**

 **lilmissbrave: Yes! That's what every author wants to read!**

 **together25x5: Thank you!**

 **jayjay0815: I appreciate your kind words.**

 **Sylarfan: This means a lot. I'm not a huge fan of OCs, truth be told. So when I take a chance to make one, I want them human, believable. I'm glad you like Logan!**

 **Guest: WHOA, big shoes to fill there! But I'll take it!**

 **Thank you all for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

Parking the truck, Aurelio remained in the cab and took a moment to stare at the massive house before him; _not_ the small cabin he initially anticipated. _How on earth did John manage to get this gig?_ Aurelio wondered as he stared at the pale two-story structure before shutting off the truck. He knew the man was popular on both ends of the social spectrum; he hadn't realized just _how_ influential John Wick's name really was.

Getting out, he moved towards the front door; the front porch light flipped on, nearly blinding Aurelio as he approached. Two silhouettes were backlit against the lights. A tall frame and a smaller, unmistakably feminine one.

"Aurelio?" A familiar voice called.

"John - Christmas came early!" Aurelio replied, disbelieving laughter in his voice.

The taller figure stepped out of the doorframe, meeting Aurelio halfway.

 _John Wick…!_

His friend stopped, unsure of how to approach the situation; Aurelio decided for him and pulled his friend into a firm, relieved hug.

"Good'ta see you, John." Aurelio murmured against John's shoulder, palming his back.

"You too, Aurelio." John stepped back and gestured toward the now empty doorway of the house. Once inside, John locked the door behind them and led his friend further into the house.

"Wow...!," Aurelio slid his gaze sliding appreciatively over the rich, western-style decor carried throughout the open but comfortable space. He noted the mounted stag head, supple leather furnishings and weathered, rustic wooden tables; turning to his friend, their visitor pointed at the wall mounted pair of longhorns wider than Aurelio's wingspan, his facial expression conveying what he lacked in words. John merely shrugged. From the rear windows, the cerulean illumination of a pool beckoned beneath a starry sky. Everything about the home was far from the modern chic decor frequently sought in New York City.

He kinda liked it.

"It's like _The Godfather_ and _Walker, Texas Ranger_ had a love child." he chuckled while John led him towards the couch, seating himself within a full-grain leather cigar chair.

"Thank you," a much more delicate voice replied. Aurelio turned in his seat, spotting the second smaller figure.

 _Where were his manners?!_ He quickly rose to his feet, but the woman insisted he remain seated.

"Logan," she said, extending her hand.

Neutral expression firmly upon his face, he appraised her with a single glance. Late twenties, long dark hair pulled into a tangled bun, slender, athletic build; the mechanic's gaze lingered briefly on her piercing, crystal-grey eyes, before automatically returning her wide, friendly smile. He found himself admiring the view; a bona fide southern girl. Hovering above his seat, Aurelio reached up to shake her hand.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Aurelio."

"Nice to meet you, too."

After the introduction, Logan retreated to the kitchen and returned with two beers, handing one to each man before turning away and disappearing up a marble staircase. Aurelio waited before she was out of earshot before speaking.

"Who is _she_?"

John took a swig before answering.

"The owner of this house."

" _Oh really_?" Aurelio was surprised, "Is she aware-?"

"She is."

"Wowza," Aurelio muttered, taking a drink himself. A beat passed.

"So, uh ... y'gotta nice thing goin' on here, John," he muttered.

"How did you find me, Aurelio?" John deadpanned.

Clearing his throat, Aurelio studied the bottle in his hands.

Better question was ' _how did they find him?_ '

"Your friend from the Continental contacted me."

"Winston?"

"Charon, actually." Aurelio sat back, trying to get comfortable under such circumstances. "He paid the restorations in full and gave me your address."

" _This_ address?" John queried.

"Yeah," Aurelio sat his beer down on the low table before him and leaned toward his friend, an earnest expression upon his face. "Don't worry 'bout people followin'. I threw a tarp on your car, logged in a fake address an' everything. No one knows I'm here."

"Except for Winston."

"Except for Winston," Aurelio echoed cautiously. He sat up, resting both elbows onto his thighs and gave John a hard, concerned look. "What're y'gonna do John? You just gonna sit here 'til the mob comes gunnin' for you?"

"Not exactly."

"What 'bout her?" He gestured towards the stairs. "Y'gonna take her down with you? Does she understand the severity of this? Because there's a _giant bounty_ on your head."

"She knows."

Aurelio scoffed, sitting back against the leather cushion rather defiantly. "She knows, but does she _understand?_ There's just two of you! There's easily thousands - maybe millions, of people looking for you, for fourteen million!" He was getting worked up just thinking about it. Beyond the chop shop business Aurelio operated, he'd made a friend in John Wick.

Despite Aurelio's overt concern for John's well-being, the man remained coolly indifferent. Aurelio wiped a hand down his weary face then took a long pull from his drink, hoping to alleviate his nerves before setting it back down. Whether Aurelio or John were prepared, every passing moment brought Wick closer to inevitable death.

Lacing his fingers together, Aurelio sighed. He was worried. In truth, he was _more_ than worried; he was _devastated_. When the news reached him, though he hated the prospect, he assumed John was already dead; a costly price exacted once the hour struck. How John literally disappeared and resurfaced in _Texas_ of all places, was a complete mystery, which Aurelio had simply attributed as _just another trick up the Baba Yaga's sleeve_.

 _Time for a different approach._

Aurelio did not want his old friend to live a life in fear. He knew John would never admit to such insecurity; Aurelio was no fool and in the end, John Wick was just a man. _A living, breathing, feeling, formidable...man._

"How would Helen feel if she saw you like this? Homeless, penniless" he stared into his folded hands. "Death on the horizon."

Aurelio felt the sting of his own words but he pressed on, feeling the intimidating weight of John's disconcerting stare upon him. "I know she loved you _more'n_ anything. What happened t'her was beyond anyone's control. This ain't no different, John. You may think you have it all under control, but the numbers aren't adding up. You're a one man army." Finally, Aurelio met the man's steady, impassive gaze. "The John I know doesn't run. He buckles _down_ , he _fights_. There's not much I can do. I'm a mechanic at a chop shop, but I know a losing battle when I see one."

John's disquieting stare remained trained onto Aurelio, who held his gaze resolutely, committing every detail to memory.

 _It might be the last time he ever sees John alive._

"Stop fighting it, John. You can't live like this. No man can." Aurelio's somber words were painful to speak and left a bitter taste in his mouth. John's dark, complicated past forged him into the very thing that made him a revered underground legend; cruelly, it would also drive John towards an unalterable, violent end ... and Aurelio was asking him to put it all behind, to come quietly and without fuss into the eternal good night.

"Surrender," John spoke carefully, his voice dangerously low. "That's your suggestion."

Aurelio blinked. He was only a mechanic, not an assassin and certainly not the recipient of a fourteen million dollar bounty. He and John were very different men, leading very different lives. What the hell did _he_ know when it came to giving advice? If Aurelio was under the watchful eye, he would be laden with panic, unable to withstand the pressure of all, but there John sat cool, collected, perpetually composed. As if chaotic storm ensued around him, battering everything in his path _except_ John Wick.

Aurelio was unable to answer; he didn't want to say it anymore than John wanted to hear it. In the end, delaying the inevitable only worsened the outcome.

John finished his beer quietly. He set the empty bottle down and reclined back, eyeing Aurelio with his steady gaze; too comfortable for what lied ahead.

"I appreciate what you've done for me, Aurelio," he said. "But it's late and time for you to go."

* * *

 **Of course, much credit goes to Holly and her impeccable editing skills and helping me crawl inside John Wick's head.**

 **Inkandtrees: I'm glad you're enjoying it thus far!**

 **Thank you for reading/reviewing.**

 **a calm before the storm, indeed! Now that John has his car back, maybe he'll have a small spark of hope?**


	10. Chapter 10

**xxx**

* * *

Respiring, Aurelio stood in the front doorway, extending his hand as he readied to leave. John took it, giving it a firm, comforting squeeze while Aurelio clapped a hand against his shoulder.

"I'll be rootin' for ya." Aurelio smiled tepidly, "Maybe once this thing blows over, you can catch me a farm girl, show me the Texas countryside."

"We'll see." John replied. "It was good seeing you again, Aurelio."

"Take care, John Wick."

After unloading the car, Aurelio's tail lights drifted down the driveway. Two stark red orbs steadily fading into the backdrop of shadows. Gripped tightly in John's hands, biting into his palm were the keys to his 1969 Mach 1 Ford Mustang.

He knew the odds were against him. Once he left the Corps behind and chose this dark path, John did not expect to leave the underground's criminally seductive lifestyle behind, to turn his back upon the heady combination of lucrative contracts won with a bullet, the gritty sophistication and certain violence; but he did―for love . . . for Helen. She introduced him a new and wonderful world, filled with her steadfast friendship and love, a stark difference to his world of associates who would simultaneously shake your hand with one, and then shoot you with the other.

After securing his 'retirement' and marrying Helen, their home, far removed from the restless, bustling city, was a tranquil haven of an undeserved peace for the _Baba_ _Yaga_ , one he was certain he didn't deserve. _Viggo was right_ ; John's dark past held great sway upon his future. In what felt to be a lifetime ago, after working alongside Viggo Tarasov, Santino D'Antonio called in his Mark, demanding John honor his blood oath by fulfilling the contract he opened upon his sister, Gianna D'Antonio. Try as he did, John could not break free. The repercussions of choices made long ago were never far behind him, seeking to summon him back into the shadowy underground with a vengeance that would not be so easily denied. No matter the amount of money hanging over John's life, he couldn't― _wouldn't_ surrender.

Pain was ever present in his life, and was deeply rooted where his heart should have been. Pain was the sole emotion he felt while helplessly watching Helen suffer through her looming illness, unable to intervene. Pain held him during the moments before she passed away, as he stroked her hair, and placed his last kiss upon her forehead, pain reached up and held back the tears he should have―but could not shed for his dying wife. Pain gave him a brief respite, taking a back seat to the dull, throbbing ache and emptiness within his heart, as he numbly watched Helen's casket slowly disappear from sight, sealing it into the cold, damp ground. Pain swept into his life with a vengeance, when his puppy, Daisy―Helen's cherished last gift to John, was taken from him, _stolen_ from him . . . _killed_ from him. Pain, now maturing into anguish, was his constant companion. It seemed he knew no other sensation.

John's mourning, now accompanied, had been interrupted in an unforgivable fashion. Up until that moment, his grief had been quiet. _Now_ that agony had found a voice; a blinding, cacophony that resonated through every bone with vengeance and unwavering will. It wailed and howled, and beat against his chest just beneath the surface of his quiet composure. It was wearing him very thin.

It wasn't _just_ a dog for John. It wasn't _just_ a car. And in response to such grievous, unforgivable transgressions, John knew no other way to reciprocate, than with calculating, unadulterated brutality. Externally, that was John's way of keeping things simple. He liked simple. But within, the pain began to convolute his reasonings. _He just wanted to retire, to mourn, to heal._

Unfortunately, Aurelio saw no solution to the dilemma even despite that John had survived the unfavorable odds thus far; that wouldn't change and certainly not overnight between the recently-returned-from-retirement-hitman and a fretful mechanic.

Easing down into driver's seat of his Mustang, John absorbed the flux of memories that engulfed him. _The smell of leather. The way its bucket seats pressed into his lower back and the back of his legs. Helen's hand drifting over the gear shift to brush his thigh._

Like a vise, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, squeezing until the leather groaned. Anger simmering behind a fortress of determination filled his chest like hellfire. Aurelio was right in some aspects: John did not run. He was buckled down, willing to fight and, more importantly, kill every man that delivered himself to Death's emissary. Aurelio's visit only served to remind John how much there was at stake, how much preparation and prevented measures needed to be taken―for Caldron, Logan, and himself. Everyone involved needed to understand what was about to happen.

Across the widespread plains of Texas, Caldron rallied his cohorts and combat brethren to John's cause; whether they empathized enough to involve themselves and answer his call to arms, was an entirely different challenge. In the end, it made very little difference to John.

 _Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat . . ._ If fate deemed that he fight the war alone, so be it, whether fortune favored him remained to be seen.

Drawing in a deep, steady breath, he stepped out and returned to the house. It was not his home; nor was it his prison, and John resolved that it _would not_ be his grave. Circumstances be damned, though the world was against him, John refused to be a victim, and just as resolutely refused to be pitied. His actions led him here, they would lead him out as well.

There were two types of pain for John: the temporary pain of self discipline and the permanent pain of regret.

 _Regret was not within John's scarce collection of moods._

Scouring the basement and first floor for Logan, John did not find her. That left the one place she must surely be. At the foot of the marble stairway, he briefly paused to listen, before ascending. On the second floor landing, John silently stalked towards Logan's bedroom. Striding through the door, his narrowed gaze noted the empty room; he continued on and found her in her en suite bathroom, seated on the edge of her tub. Logan swiftly stood, startled at his sudden, unannounced arrival, her eyes alert, absorbing every detail of John as if her life depended on it.

 _Perhaps it did._

He stepped past the threshold, stalking towards her; this time, Logan was ready. Backing up, she retreated from him until she bumped into a nearby wall. As John closed the distance, her eyes widened. Adrenalin pumping, Logan's pupils dilated, enlarging to eclipse the iris' storm grey as she gazed up into John's burning stare, the force of which left her teetered between thrill and fright.

"Show me." John's demand was not a question; Logan's brow furrowed with confusion; the connection not entirely made.

"Downstairs." his voice dangerously low. "I want to see it again."

There was no negotiating. If Logan wanted any part of John's tumultuous life, she needed to prove herself again and again. His wounds were healed, abrasions gone. His body was itself again.

She swallowed, breaths coming short and fast. His nearness unsettled her. "Like in the kitchen? Why—?"

His hand shot out but Logan blocked it, and then caught the following arm meant to deliver a counter blow. However, John was stronger with more weight behind every decision and precise move he made. Slowly, carefully, he began to overpower her, though she gritted her teeth determinedly holding him off.

Releasing his arms, Logan ducked. John's arms swung through open air. Her barefeet slapping against the tile as she raced for the door leading into her bedroom.

John was right behind, catching the back of her shirt and throwing her to the floor, trapping her beneath the length of his body; instead of wriggling and struggling right there, Logan wrapped her legs around his waist, throwing her hips forward and locking her ankles. John could feel the strength in her thighs as they constricted around his ribcage. Her shorts rode up as they fought, revealing toned quads John hadn't noticed until now.

The pressure from her legs filled his torso, crushing his lungs as the fight ensued. Driving his elbows sharply into her thighs once, twice, three times, Logan determinedly held on, squeezing even tighter in response, the inflicted areas growing red and angry as welts rose to the surface. They grappled; fighting, parrying, the room grew hotter, their labored breathing becoming louder, more aggressive, their grunts feral.

Around him, Logan's legs became viselike as she held him fast. Straining, their arms locked. John's arm was applying pressure to her neck while one of her hands fisted into his hair―pulling and twisting hard, the other digging into the flesh of his shoulder. She flipped, rolling both of them onto their sides. Contact broken, John watched Logan clamber backwards. Both fighters fell back, breathing hard, reassessing the other, mentally cataloging new advantages and guarding disadvantages. Through her expressive eyes, John predicted her next move; she was preparing to make a break for the door and flee downstairs. A weapon was the only way to level the playing field. Logan may have the advantage of youth, but John was taller, stronger and vastly more experienced.

Springing to her feet and pivoting on her heel, Logan dashed, darting out of the bathroom, but John snagged her by the waist. He lifted her from the floor and slung her against the bed; her back met the neatly made bedding, body bouncing as John advanced. Twisting around, she clawed her way across the bed with hands and feet, trying to gain purchase, hoping to escape. He caught her ankle, dragging her back and her heel came against his chest, knocking him away.

Undeterred, John pressed on, yanking her back towards him by grabbing her thrashing legs once more. Accepting her fate, Logan allowed herself to be pulled back. As soon as the distance between them closed, she flipped over and her legs wrapped around his ribcage a second time; this time, her arms came too, snaking around his neck. Logan jerked him down into a choke hold, using her entire body and mass to keep him in place―legs coiled, constricting like an anaconda, arms tightening, locking in place. The room grew quiet as they fought in earnest―or until John allowed himself to pass out. One hand attempted to pull her suffocating arms away from his neck, the other pushing against her legs restricting his movement; however, she tightened her stranglehold even more, squeezing him for all she was worth. John's sensitive wounds flared sharply in protest at the repeated assault; more importantly, _he couldn't breathe._ Blood trapped in his head; pulsating veins bulging at his temples, he fought against her hold.

 _He had ten seconds to break free or pass out._

Gritting his teeth, vision going black, John reached beneath Logan's arms and dug his fingers into her brachial nerves; Logan shrieked with pain, her tight hold around his neck loosened automatically. Wrenching himself free of her grasp, he gulped in air and flipped around, catching both her wrists in his hands. He raised them them above her head, eliminating her ability to use them as leverage against him. The sinewy muscles in John's forearms flexed, firmly keeping Logan's elbows in place with his longer arm span. Pinned once more beneath him, Logan had no room to maneuver, neither did she have the strength to attempt an escape. Above her, John studied Logan, his breathing rate already slowed to normal. Logan, however, looked the worse for wear. Panting, she glared up at him, glowing pain suffused her body, weary and trembling from her exertions; as Logan focused on bringing her breathing under control, attempting to match John's cool, indifferent composure, their eyes met, their proximity so close, there was nowhere else to look but at each other.

Wrists still secured, John changed his grip, noting the exact moment she gradually relaxed beneath him, momentarily distracted by . . . feeling her wrist pulse suddenly quicken beneath his thumbs. A subtle shift occurred, perplexing and undefinable, changing the dynamics between them. Faces mere inches apart, her breaths caressed his face. Logan's legs were still locked around his body, though nowhere near as tightly as before; Logan's ankles unhooked, her legs flexing around his waist, bringing him intimately closer, before her legs released him completely as she shifted her body beneath his. Her bare feet on either side of him. Holding himself mere inches above her, John fought the urge to sink lower into the valley between her thighs.

"That choke." He said softly, his dark eyes broke contact and moved downward, lingering on her lips. "Did you learn that from Caldron?"

Logan nodded, too breathless to speak.

The bed where they lay was mussed, haphazardly strewn in heaps, most of it trailing along the floor, the pillows scattered across the room. Despite himself, John relaxed even more, hovering just above the cradle of Logan's hips, disturbed that his body did not fall into alarm at their close proximity. He met and held Logan's gaze, committing the details to memory. Arresting and expressive clear, grey-blue most days, depending on her mood and clothing, her eyes changing to slate or darkening to a storm grey the next. . . lips framing a wide smile he rarely saw.

Gently releasing her wrists, John quietly sighed as he propped himself on his forearms, his face once more an inscrutable mask, before pushing up and away from her; as he withdrew, his eyes narrowed when Logan raised herself up on her elbows, closing the distance between them. She used the heels of her hands to prop her upper torso, following as he pulled further away from her. John solemnly regarded her, before she reached out and caught a fistful of his shirt; immediately, he stilled, waiting for her next move.

Dark grey eyes never leaving his, Logan's hand cupped his face, her fingertips gently caressing his coarse beard before gliding past, and tangling in his long hair. John watched, unable to do much else. Taking advantage of his indecision, she pulled him closer and gently pressed her lips to his. John hesitated, resisting Logan's kiss for a brief moment, before his hands feebly attempted to sever all contact. As he went to stand, Logan followed him up; kneeling upon the bed, she gained better access to the man. Curling her fingers in his dark hair, she tilted his face and tenderly kissed him, encouraged to continue when she felt his large hands span her back and ribcage. Blissfully unaware of John's thoughts, Logan lost herself in the moment, luxuriating in the heat he radiated, elated when his thumbs tenderly brushed the sides of her breasts before they continued upward. His jumbled thoughts were a conflicting maelstrom, swirling maddeningly within his mind.

Thoughts of pushing Logan far away―of throwing her from him and leaving her bedroom quickly, roared within his mind, yet the more insistent the dark thoughts became, John discovered he simply could not let Logan go. A carefully hidden, but growing desire to claim for himself what Logan was offering, severely tested his best intentions to keep their undefined relationship strictly professional; however, he was only a man. . . a man who once loved deeply, who had desires, and still had love to give. John gripped Logan's sides firmly, feeling her ribs move beneath his hands, as she breathed, imagining the sound and feel of her pounding heart. His hands began moving over Logan's trembling body of their own accord. John returned her kiss, allowing himself to take comfort from her, a quiet respite from the tumultuous life they were both living. Wrapping an arm around her back, holding her closer, his other hand pulled her bottom tightly against him, pressing their lower halves together, straining to get closer still. His secret hope to love once more and be loved again flamed brightly in his chest, only to sputter and die, completely extinguished by the memory of the vows he'd taken for Helen. Head versus heart, Man versus the carnal beast within him, that was raging to escape the self-imposed confines of John's formidable self-disciple and self-control.

 _Helen ..._

At the thought of his late wife, like an electrical shock, John returned to himself. With a sharp breath, John tore himself away from Logan and stood back. The heat they had just shared diminished. An expression of guilt darkened Logan's face as she gingerly touched her lips, suddenly aware of her own actions. John's lungs heaved with clarity. He'd just lost his wife among other things. How quickly and easily he betrayed Helen's memory. He needed to leave.

Death hadn't released its emissary from the vows he'd taken. The last of her parting words echoing in his head, as if pardoning his actions.

 _… You still need someone, something to love…_

In her bedroom doorway, he paused ever so briefly before disappearing into the hallway.

* * *

 **Holly! For her gracious help through it all.**

 **lilmissbrave: Yay! Well I certainly don't want you to be able to predict the story! That would make it boring.**

 **Inkandtrees: It was terrible short, I apologies. There won't be many of those, I promise!**

 **jayjay0815: we're building to that. John's location hasn't quite been discovered, thanks to Winston. But WE SHALL SEE!**

 **Sylarfan: Rest assured, small chapters will be rare. If anything, they're a filler to keep the blood flowing.**

 **MrsJadeRatchet: Wow, those are quite the compliments! Thank you so much, it couldn't have been done without my friend Holly's help.**


	11. Chapter 11

**a lengthy chapter sitting at about 3.6k. please enjoy!**

* * *

 **xxx**

 _"This life follows you, clings to you, infects everyone who comes close to you."_

* * *

The reinforced glass door of a local pawn shop chimed a single carillon of a cowbell just as Caldron entered. Dressed in a white Oxford button down, tight against his chest and biceps, and tucked into a pair of gray slacks, Caldron was there to conduct business. It was the first step of many towards a long, carefully thought out and executed process.

The man of the hour in his late fifties appeared from the back room, a lower receiver clutched in his rough, tattooed hands; muscular stature, brown hair slicked back in a high-and-tight, and just as deadly as Caldron Ryder.

"Holy hell . . . !" the man chuckled, the sound deep and throaty. Setting the parts down on the glass counter, he placed his hands wide on the countertop, and let out a low whistle, critically appraising his friend before he continued "Someone's back from the dead."

Caldron smiled sheepishly, gesturing _you caught me_ with his arms. "How've you been, Kennedy?" he grinned, watching his friend come around from behind the counter, his large hand extended.

Their firm handshake turned into hearty embrace, clapping each other across the back before stepping away. Kennedy respired; the waxed ends of his mustache tilted upwards as he smirked, "Why, just livin' the dream." _A modern day Doc Holliday_.

"Heard you got something pretty in . . . ?" Following Kennedy to the sales counter, Caldron picked up a knife sharpener, eyeing the small wedge of blades as he spoke. "Mind if I see it?"

"Only if you promise to buy it." Kennedy replied, before turning and disappearing into the back. He called over his shoulder, "I've got one with a scope and without. Pick your poison?"

"I ain't no damned casual, Kennedy." Caldron scoffed, replacing the sharpener into its bucket.

Kennedy returned with a rifle—scope included— in his hands.

"Here she is." He pulled the charging handle back, locked the bolt to the rear and checked the chamber before handing it over.

"Very nice," Caldron cooed, grabbing the heavy assault weapon. He positioned his hand firmly along the guardrail and leaned, bringing the butttock firmly into the pocket of his shoulder. He aimed, feet automatically positioned, and whispered,"Beautiful."

"Right? Sig actually matched the ballistics for the scope." Kennedy reached across the counter to tap the scope's reticule dial with his fingertip. "This is a .556, so the drop compensation will be different if you swapped to another caliber. Tedious adjustments, but fucking precise. That's a SIGM400 Predator rifle and the scope is a Whiskey 3 3-9x40."

Caldron dropped the rifle to a low ready, judging the weight and how it would affect time in the field. "Kinda heavy, don't 'cha think?"

Kennedy shrugged, undeterred. "It's a hunting rifle, plus lesser recoil." crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the counter, watching Caldron squeeze the handguard, feeling its sharp edges beneath the weight.

"Don't matter none what _I_ think; what do _you_ think?" he asked, anticipating an inevitable purchase.

Deliberating, Caldron pursed his lips. "I like Sig Sauer, and my daughter is a huge fan; what I'm _really_ wanting's something I can reach out and _touch_ someone with," he muttered, swinging the rifle up a second time, fluidly aiming down sights. Recognizing the parlance, Kennedy's curled mustache rose again in a wicked grin, his weathered, blue eyes glinting with mischief. "I'm familiar with that tone. Gimme a sec."

Caldron carefully placed the rifle down as Kennedy disappeared into the back room again. He returned with a bolt-action rifle in hand, and proudly ticked off the weapon's features.

" _This_ is ArmaLite's AR-30A1 in .300 Win Mag. Five round capacity, twenty-four inch barrel with a two-stage trigger. It don't come with a scope, though. _Of course_ , I can always fix you with one." Kennedy reverently handed the weapon over for Caldron's inspection. Caldron took the rifle carefully, critically appraising its vaunted details, sliding the bolt lever back and forth, admiring its smooth mechanics. "That's some boom stick; if I buy a Sig scope, will they adjust it to a .300?"

"They sure will."

For a bolt-action hardware, it felt lighter than the assault rifle; Sig Sauer was revered for making entirely metal weapons, Caldron knew. It looked good, and it _felt_ even better. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he pointed the muzzle towards the floor. He hadn't come to the shop for the weapon alone, but as a means for reestablishing an old friendship―the beginning of a very tedious task. Caldron, of course, had a slew of close friends he could turn to, but more importantly, he needed to reacquaint himself with those he'd lost contact with. _The more, the merrier_.

Kennedy was an Army Ranger in the days of old, and a damn good one, too. The man retired, built himself a business selling weapons and accessories outside of San Antonio. As his team's sniper, Kennedy was well versed in long-range shooting and had a _helluva_ time making things bleed.

Caldron wanted perimeters maintained when the proverbial _'shit hit the fan'_. Attaching a Sig scope would lure Logan to it like a moth to flame; she was an easy-to-please shooter. He knew John can handle himself; what Caldron _really_ wanted, was Kennedy's keen eyes and to tap into his friend's network of cohorts. Securing the Ranger's help would give Caldron unlimited access to other snipers living under the radar, as is customary for their ilk.

"Does this have a threaded barrel?" Caldron inquired, reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his slacks.

"It sure does," Kennedy eyed him suspiciously. "What d'you need a silencer for?"

Caldron shook his head, sighing, "I got some people tryin' to hunt on my daughter's property. It's really pissin' me off." _Technically_ , he wasn't lying.

"No shit?" Kennedy chuckled. "How is Logan by the way? Still flying?"

Caldron grinned, "She sure is. I'm sure you'll like this: she up and joined the damn Army, the little shit."

Kennedy's eyes flew open, intrigued. "What's she flyin'?"

"Ah, I don't know. I didn't ask; she was all upset when I found out. I didn't want to pry."

"Hell of a child, I tell you. She married yet?"

Taken aback, Caldron's mind went blank. Logan― _married?_ Kennedy sniggered and then guffawed at the bald man's obvious discomfiture.

Blinking several times, he finally stammered, "Uh- well, uh no, actually. She's not." Logan had plenty of time to wait for the right man, Caldron mentally assured himself.

 _However..._

That seemed to surprise Kennedy even more than Logan joining the military, and he stopped laughing at his friend. "Well . . . guess she just ain't found the right man t'keep up with her," he drawled, nodding at his own sage advice.

 _The right man..._

He didn't exist―what _'right man'_ was even worthy of his daughter? No one he could imagine off the top of his bald head and not anyone capable of 'keeping up with her.'

 _Except one..._

"I guess she hasn't," Caldron murmured; a terrible idea was budding in his head as he handed his credit card over. He'd never once considered whether or not Logan wished to marry. As her father, such events were at the very back of his mind. Albeit, she was getting older, onto her twenty-seventh birthday in the fall. Caldron chewed his lip, hearing, but not really listening to Kennedy's rambling as he boxed the rifle and completed the necessary paperwork.

Against his better judgement, Caldron pondered why he came to the shop in the first place: the brewing storm, the indifference and automatic declination his friends would respond with, when they realized their subject was neither immediate friend nor family.

 _Nothin' more'n a stray._

No, John was not an immediate friend; however, because Logan directly transfused John with her blood, Caldron's blood literally flowed through Wick's veins as well. It was a technicality that realistically could not qualify John for the assistance Caldron sought from his cohorts; _however,_ there was a way. . . . the only way to address that minor detail―the obvious answer would be for John to . . . _become family._ Caldron determined that the past would, indeed, have sway over the future―John's future. He would personally see to it.

"Actually," Caldron blurted, going full throttle into a bold lie, "She's talking to a real good friend of mine."

"Oh, is she now?" Kennedy stilled, his interest greatly piqued; he wasn't above enjoying a good piece of gossip from a trusted source.

"Yep," he blurted, hoping if he spoke quickly, the sooner the lie would be over. "'Member that infantry Marine I sparred with back in the day?" The story had spread like wildfire. Caldron had caught plenty of flak because of his stunning defeat; he wasn't embarrassed though. John became a good friend, and later―the very person to execute the unthinkable. In the end, losing that fight saved his wife and child, of that, Caldron was fully convinced.

"Son, I sure do ―why, y'got your hairier-than-your-bald-head, flat ass whooped ―whoooooped, I tell you; why I clearly recall that skinny grunt servin' you a heapin' high slice o' humble pie!" Kennedy crowed with glee; hooting with laughter, Kennedy never tired of reminding Caldron of his very public, very humbling event.

Caldron lifted both eyebrows suggestively, allowing Kennedy to draw the inevitable conclusion. The mustachioed man's laughter trailed off when Caldron remained silent.

Kennedy blinked.

" _Him?_ " Realizing incredulously, he slapped a hand against the counter and started cackling. "Boy―I tell you, God's got a damn good sense o'humor! _Hot damn_ , if I got my ass whooped by a regular grunt, I'd hand the man my Ranger scroll on the spot!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah―you're enjoyin' this ain't you?" Caldron grumbled.

"Yessir, damn straight, I am!" Kennedy retorted, grinning widely.

"Well c'mon now― you want my money or not? You're doing a shit job with this _'Customers are always right'_ crap. Don't you make commission?"

Wiping the corner of his eyes, Kennedy's cackling subsided to a weary groan, "Man, oh, man. Alright; well, you're good t'go on the paperwork. Hey, you wanna get any ammo while you're here?"

Caldron sighed as he gave it some thought. "Might as well."

He turned then, eyeing the shelves of neatly stacked ammunition. Kennedy had everything a man would need―from brass to battle buddies just as reckless and dangerous as he.

"Kennedy," Caldron muttered, staring at the shelves, the proverbial cogs turning.

"Yessir?"

He turned, eyeing his old friend. "How much do you miss _it_?"

Caldron did not have to elaborate upon the topic he regarded. Another sly grin wrinkled Kennedy's eyes, lips curling, baring his straight, white teeth below his peppered, waxed mustache "Every damn day! My ghillie suit still fits . . . an' I miss havin' good reason t'wear it." he replied softly.

Caldron correctly assumed as much; it was just his luck that he was right. Kennedy loved his days in the Army. He was ruthless, often throwing aside his weapons to fight solely with a knife. The man was wild as they come, and Caldron admired that berserker quality.

"What if . . . I told you, I had something coming up that just might be of interest to you? Somethin' that would require a man of your . . . _particular_ skillset to achieve?"

* * *

A ominous, darkening overcast loomed over the southern horizon, quickly spreading northward. Gusty winds listed the treetops, rustling their branches while cooling the sweat upon Logan's brow.

She needed something mind numbing and laborious ―something to keep the lingering guilt and embarrassment at bay; tending to the ranch was the solution.

 _What was she thinking?_

Perhaps the problem was: _she wasn't._

Her memory replayed their . . . encounter in an endless loop, and it only worsened her disposition, setting her cheeks aflame, her pride burning with humility as she savagely dug out a portion of her fence. Dry rot claimed several of posts, weakening their ability to hold up the barbed wire. Only three post were affected; of course, the first one was giving her the most trouble.

This fence line followed the highway; every so often, a car would pass by then disappear into the horizon. A wheelbarrow filled with replacement wood waited behind her as she dug through the packed soil. Any other day, the arduous farm work would have abhorred her. Unfortunately, today she felt she needed a little bit of abuse, anything to knock some sense into her.

The wind kicked up, blowing loosened strands of hair into her eyes, which she swiped away, growing frustrated with the buried stump. Sweeping her tangled, windblown hair to one shoulder, she hurriedly weaved it into a single braid, unable to capture the short strands around her temples; the tendrils of hair, damp from sweat.

Using the heel of her boot, Logan kicked at the post, hoping to jar it loose. The stump jutted out far enough to grab hold off; freeing it from the clinging earth remained the issue.

Dropping to her knees, Logan wrapped her gloved hands around the post and yanked. It didn't budge. Undeterred, she pushed and pulled, trying to shake it loose from the packed dirt, but her hands slipped instead. She flew back into a pratfall, landing on her bottom with an _'oomph!'_

Momentarily defeated, Logan sat there, glaring at the protruding stump while she fought back her swelling sense of shame; it did not help matters that Logan was a literal hot and sweat-drenched mess: her knees were scraped and dirty, her clothes and the edges of her steel-toed work boots were caked and spattered with mud; adding insult to her injured, miserable state, was that she was very, very hungry; she skipped breakfast and did not replenish the dirt bike's saddlebags' emergency stash of protein bars; Logan was a truly pitiful sight to behold. Against the small of her back, the hard, metallic pressure of her Ka-Bar's hilt reminded Logan she could always dig the bugger out; doing so would quickly dull the blade.

Sighing, she straightened her legs out against the hard soil and hung her head against her chest, the very picture of defeat. The wind kicked up again. Logan listened for the chimes hung from her patio, but she was too far away. She was at one end of her roughly thousand-acre property, placing her just under a mile from her house.

Off to the side, was Logan's trusty dirt bike, patiently resting against its kickstand. Despite forgetting to refuel it again, the contraption somehow managed to transport her without issue. Remaining optimistic, she hoped it'd get her back to the house, as well. The very thought of returning home, and to John, made Logan's stomach drop to her feet. All the previously fluttering butterflies now felt like a pile of lead weights in the pit of her belly. Studying the twisting oak trees and short, stunted mesquites, Logan briefly considered digging a grave deep enough to bury herself―and her humiliation beneath their large, gnarled roots.

Even now, the sensation of his lips and mouth against hers impossibly lingered, as did the bristly feeling of his beard against her face and beneath her fingers. She couldn't shake from her mind, even if she carved them out with her Ka-Bar. John Wick left Logan bewildered by her own actions and completely mortified. Logan was not necessarily inexperienced when it came to romance. She wasn't unattractive― far from it; young, healthy, intelligent and athletic . . . and she looked very good in a white bikini. Being an only child only increased Logan's appeal tenfold, for she had no overprotective siblings to watch over her―or compete with, when taking possession of her eventual inheritance―she is the sole heiress to the sizable Ryder estate. Logan Ryder had nothing to lose and so much to gain.

During her teenage years and well into high school, Logan did go on a date or two with boys she considered potential; however, it did not take long for her to realize they weren't truly interested in her. The impressive house, her father's money― wisely invested, steadily contributed to her already sizeable dowry; the Ryder name alone lured many fortune hunters. As a result, Logan channeled her energies in other areas; excelling in her academic studies, seeking ways to win her then-mostly-absent father's approval, and her passion: learning to fly. Her social life consisted of training in the art of _Krav Maga_ ; Logan had no time to be lonely, when her mind and body were kept busy gaining knowledge and brutally forging herself into what she knew Caldron would approve of. Her father, of course, thought otherwise. Thanks to him, because of her continued disinterest to seek a boyfriend of her own choosing, he brought to his daughter, the 'boyfriends' he was convinced she needed in her life.

During her childhood summer vacations, all throughout her teenage years, at her mother's insistence, Logan attended finishing courses and fine etiquette workshops; she could sip a variety of tea from delicate bone china just as daintily as any newly-introduced-to-high-society debutante; just as easily as she swigged her beer, Logan could ballroom dance. Though fully capable of flawlessly setting a formal table seating, using all the heavy silverware in her mother's fine china cabinet and repeat―in detail, the expectations fine manners and etiquette demanded, when advised by her father of a potential suitor's impending visit to the house, Logan conveniently forgot all her high society training; she did not practice proper oral hygiene, and she did not use her deoderant. Logan deliberately made herself as unappealing as possible. Whether it be her dour, shrewish, indifferent attitude, or ill-manners at the table: chewing her food as a cow does its cud, picking and dislodging food from her teeth, sweeping it away with her fingers or fingernails before wiping it on the table ―if at all.

In the end, the boys Caldron had hoped would spark Logan's interest, called less frequently; in time, any efforts to secure a date with the lovely and talented Logan Ryder markedly lessened, and eventually ceased; she knew her father meant well, however, she hated the prospect of it all; she did not want to end up like him―with three unhappy and failed marriages. The men who weren't interested in the Ryder estate, and all it entailed, simply failed to elicit, much less hold her interest.

Her father was keen to her. Caldron was well aware of her antics; disappointed, he made no attempt to correct them, and he ceased all well-meaning, but misguided matchmaking efforts. Given his silent consent, Logan assumed he was satisfied with being the only man in her life; _she_ certainly was.

 _Until, of course…_

Logan snuffed the thought, too proud to admit such a detail, even to herself. Of course, fate cruelly placed the one man Logan desired far beyond her reach, twisting the proverbial knife by rendering John Wick emotionally unavailable, and . . . unobtainable.

Like the stiff breeze blowing across the land, Logan's shame spread across her very being, much like the rapidly approaching storm. Bending her knees, she planted her works boots against the dirt and picked herself up from the ground, dusting her rump off; briefly glancing up at the sound of obnoxiously loud, pounding music blaring from a dark truck as it drove by. Logan returned her attention to her task; glaring at the jutting stump that seemed to challenge her. She grumbled, trudging towards it for another go.

The truck slowed; the engine's high pitched whine alerted Logan, when the driver shifted the vehicle into reverse, and began erratically driving backwards; quickly, she backed away from the fence line, gauging the truck's speed and distance before they reached her. She did not have to wait long. The brakes locked and the wheels froze as they came to a screeching stop directly before her.

Out of the driver's window, the barrel of a pistol emerged.

* * *

 **y'all like cliff hangers? heh.**

 **Holly, thank you. I'd shower you with hearts but fanfic will just put a bunch of '3's.**

 **Inkandtrees: I'm glad you enjoyed that. You can definitely see a favoritism between Winston and John. He showed Wick mercy when Perkins was not so lucky.**

 **jayjay0815: YASSS, it makes complete sense to me! I feel like Winston has a LOT of power. So much to play with.**

 **Sylarfan: Ugh, John Wick is so enigmatic. It makes me feel so good when someone tells me I'm keeping everyone well within character.**

 **AydenW: HELLO, YES THANK YOU! I'm glad it was intense. IT WAS INTENSE WRITING IT!**

 **Chase Ford: Thank you!**

 **Guest: YAY! Not gonna lie, writing John's POV is intimidating.**

 **I hope y'all enjoyed it. As you can see, next chapters gonna go out with a bang. PUN. INTENDED.**


	12. Chapter 12

_Until you need to be a savage, act like a gentleman._

 **xxx**

* * *

She felt the shot at the same time she heard it go off. In an instant, white-hot pain ignited across her upper arm as a deafening explosion splintered through the ravaging winds.

Immediately, Logan hit to the ground as another shot rang out, kicking up dirt just inches from her skull. Throwing her arms over her head, her affected limb throbbed in protest―a dull, hot pain resonated across her back; fighting down the instant, frenzied panic, Logan forced herself to keep a clear mind. She kept low to the ground, scrambling back towards her dirt bike as more shots rang out, missing their intended target: _her._ The reality of her situation sent Logan's heart into overdrive as she retreated.

With every motion, her wound screamed in protest. The graze of hot metal was only a breath away from blowing out her entire shoulder.

Hauling herself to her feet, she sprinted towards the dirt bike. Dust and bracken mottled her clothes as she moved. Hot, bright red blood trickled down the length and expanse of her arm, and dripped from her elbow. The wind whipped and roared. The overcast churning a threatening pallor as she hurried.

Mounting her dirt bike quickly, Logan nudged the kickstand with her heel. She lost count how many shots rang out, their close reports startling and unnerving her―interfering with her ability to move under fire―even though she had trained for this very situation.

Despite Logan's efforts to remain calm, she yelped, ducking reflexively as she sought the kick starter with her boot. Flicking it out, she slammed it down and the engine roared...only to sputter to a stop.

"Fuck!" she cursed as another shot ricocheted off a nearby rock.

Panicked, Logan threw the dirt bike against the ground and launched into a dead sprint, kicking up dirt as she headed for the slopes. Hills and shallow creek beds hidden between wide limestone fissures, separated Logan from her house. Without the dirt bike, she hadn't the speed; at the very least, she could use the terrain to her advantage. Tumbling down a steep decline, Logan trampled and slid her way through the cacti and arid shrubs, splashing through a clear, shallow creek bed as she hurried crossed. Ignoring the sharply aching stitch in her side, Logan threw her gloves off, using her bare hands to frantically claw her way up the opposing side. Cresting the jagged rocks, from half a mile away, Logan was able to see her home. Adrenaline surged through her veins, numbing the pulsating wound along her shoulder and propelling her forward with adamant conviction.

Between her heaving breaths, her heart pounding in her ears, she could make out the faint shouts growing louder, their sounds becoming closer behind her. Whoever 'they' were, they stopped shooting at her―only because she disappeared from their line of sight. There could only be one reason why they were here and for whom…

 _ **John...**_

Logan needed to get to him― _and soon_.

A motor roared to life, revving as the throttle was applied fervidly, almost mockingly.

 _Her dirt bike._

The assailants must have claimed it and would be well upon her before she could reach home; all she had was her Ka-Bar.

Logan knew not to bring a knife to a gunfight should she consider fighting them off. Realizing the odds were not in her favor, and her luck was diminishing rapidly, she ran faster, pumping her arms and legs harder―ignoring the burning pain in her thighs and the breathless flare in her chest; her forgotten wound slinging blood as she raced across the land.

 _She had to get home._

The whining emission of a motor carried on the breeze, pronouncing its arrival as it leaped over the very hill she was descending.

"Fuck," she cried, blind panic biting into her shoulders like sharp talons. The sound closed in on her, filling her chest with its roar.

Then she tripped.

Plummeting to the ground, Logan rolled as the dirt bike flew past her, throwing sand and rocks into her face. The blood along her arms clotted with dirt, the rocks biting into her hips. More shouting intercepted the roaring engine as she quickly picked herself up.

Turning, she decided to face her assailants.

 _Three men._

One of whom was currently circling around on Logan's bike; the other two casually observed from the hilltop. One―a portly fellow wearing navy blue coveralls; next to him, dressed entirely in black, was a scrawny man, barely able to withstand the buffeting Texas wind.

The hilt of Logan's knife gave her a mild sense of relief as it pressed into her back. Her attackers still had their guns and her odds were looking quite bleak. If she were able to disarm one of them, she might be able to squeeze off a few rounds into the others. Doubt filled her mind; she was outnumbered and outgunned.

 _What was she thinking…?_

Back around came the dirt bike, heading directly at her.

 _Was he going to try and run her over_? Surely not...

 _He was._

Pivoting the second he closed in, Logan twisted, reaching back as she did, and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. The dirt bike tore past her, bumping her aside as it grazed by. Her gripped slipped, but it was enough to upset the man's balance; he lost control, laying the bike down into the dirt. He was pinned, the scorching motor resting against his leg.

Immediately, she charged him.

Struggling to get the sputtering machine off of him, Logan was upon him by the time he freed his gun, kicking the hand brandishing the weapon with her steel-toed boot. The pistol careened through the air as she pulled the blade free from its sheath, the fluidity of a well-practiced motion. Logan brought the knife down, sinking it into the man's neck―just above the clavicle. Severing his jugular vein, the onyx blade punched out the other side of the man's neck.

A wet, strangled gurgle escaped his lips, silenced by the rising blood that flooded his mouth and pulsated liberally from his neck. Freeing the blade, she brought it down a second time, and then a third, mauling the man's neck. Overcome with a blinding rage, blood and gore slung everywhere; it spattered across Logan's chest, and face―coating and slicking her hands.

The other men.

Snapping free of her mindless wrath, Logan wrenched about, wildly eyeing the hilltop behind her―they were gone.

 _Not just gone, they had left._

Assuming their partner could take care of Logan on his own, meant they had moved on towards the prize: **John Wick.**

Freeing her weapon, Logan snatched up the discarded gun, shoving it into the waistband of her denim shorts before she leapt over the corpse, towards the toppled dirtbike―the engine had cut out moments before. Panting heavily, she righted the bike and mounted it.

 _She had to get to John._

Squeezing the clutch, she kickstarted the engine, relieved to hear it sputter to life. Dropping to a lower gear, she released the clutch and punched the gas, tearing through the dirt as she sped home. As she neared, Logan spotted the intruders' dark truck racing across her property, heading for the back patio. They must have ran over the barbed wire and thought nothing of their tires.

Twisting the throttle, the engine screamed, already in its highest gear, but Logan wanted to make as much noise as possible. The sensors should have gone off―what if John ignored them?

 _Not likely_. John hadn't given her any reason to doubt him . . . just yet.

Watching the men exit their vehicle and hurry towards her home, sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through her. One man―the portly fellow―stopped after hearing her approach, while the other man continued forward, running haphazardly into her home.

Keeping her right hand applied to the throttle, Logan used her injured arm to pull the pistol free. It didn't matter she never trained in shooting from a moving dirt bike―or that she wasn't left handed. She aimed and pulled the trigger.

 _Missed_.

Cursing, she leaned, turning the bike as she peeled through the sand.

She shot once more.

 _Missed again._

How many rounds were in the magazine was unknown.

The portly man returned fire as she turned the bike broadside. The back tire exploded, losing traction and sending her crashing into the dirt.

Her body smacked into the ground, punching the air from her lungs.

Logan and the dirt bike slid against this scouring sand. When it came to a stop, she kicked madly against the dirt bike, pushing the hot motor away from her while readying the gun. Lying on her back, she gripped the pistol and squeezed off two more rounds. The truck's driver window exploded, causing the man to hurriedly duck as he stumbled towards her. The other round lost itself to the overcast, missing entirely. Rising quickly and now able to breathe, Logan was more than eager to meet him halfway. Bringing the pistol up, Logan fired off another shot. The slide locked to the rear, signalling an expended magazine; she was out of ammo.

Out of options, Logan flung the weapon.

Pinwheeling as it whizzed through the air, it cracked against the man's face; he bellowed in pain, cupping his eye as he blindly staggered about, disoriented. Tripping upon himself, Logan was upon him, driving a boot into his ribs and freeing her blade in a single motion.

A scream came from within the house as she bent over to grab the man, preparing to saw his head off. Suddenly, his foot swung up, kicking Logan squarely in the chest. The wind was knocked from her lungs a second time, and she fell back from the stunning blow, gasping for air.

Another agonizing scream spilled from the house, followed by an ungodly noise Logan had never heard before. She hoped it wasn't John― _prayed_ it wasn't John as she worked through the pain to breathe again. Joining the ghastly scream, the snarling bark and baying, growling howl of John's dog made Logan want to clap her hands over her ears. In response to the terrible cries, her attacker hoisted himself up, gun in tow and stumbled toward the house, ignoring her entirely.

A figure emerged from the back door, but it wasn't John, it was the skinnier lad. John was directly _behind_ him; the very visage of death casually strolling out into the whipping winds. The dying sound came from the smaller man as John calmly steered him outside towards his companion in coveralls. Logan immediately noticed the reason for the man's indescribable agony.

His shoulder was tilted at a grossly unnatural angle, his arms slack at his side―unable to fend off John―face tensed between screams and breathless cries, arching his back in a manner that denoted absolute agony. John would manipulate something between the man's shoulder and elicited a scream so profound, his voice collapsed. Deep, blood curdling emissions, issued from the bottom of his lungs tore past the scrawny assailants lips.

Unable to endure his unspeakable agony, the man's knees buckled and he sank to the concrete, weeping in anguish. Sitting up, Logan tried, but couldn't―understand―the bright red protrusion from his back, the very thing John had a hold of . . . ?

 _A knife's hilt?_ she thought.

Then her stomach twisted with clarity.

 _No, his bone._

The unnatural angle of his shoulder, the piercing cries . . . immobile from the paralyzing pain.

The overweight man brought his gun up, trembling. "Don't come any closer!"

"Who sent you?" John's low, intense words sliced through the churning storm above. The brewing overcast seemed to quiet itself as he spoke.

Logan got up; now that he was distracted, the heavy man couldn't see her, blade in hand, closing in quietly from behind―but his friend did; he opened his mouth to warn him, but Logan pounced, plunging the knife deeply into his broad back, the surgically sharp blade effortlessly cut through his flesh as Logan dragged it downward. It stuck after lodging itself between bones.

She stepped back, abandoning the blade sunk to the hilt between his broad shoulders.

The man―gasping―fired off two rounds at John before succumbing to his wound and slumping onto the ground in a writhing heap of soft, wet cries.

Fearing the worse, Logan frantically spotted John, only to see slender assailant's eyes roll towards the back of his head, body slowly becoming inert, as death swiftly and mercifully claimed him. John released him, allowing the man fall flat onto his face.

His purpose: John's human shield.

Logan studied the prostrate figure at her feet, the last twitches of life jostling his limbs until death delivered its final kiss.

Grabbing his dirty sleeve, she lifted it up, pulling until his torso was revealed. Across the breast pocket of his coveralls in white embroidery read,

 _Marshall._

* * *

 **do y'all remember where Marshall came from? YOU BETTER.**

 **Holly. Holly. Holly. I should start paying you. When the proverbial shit hits the fan, I will protect you. I promise.**

 **Inkandtrees: Good! Caldron has a huge part of this story. I didn't just want some sappy romance with John Wick naked 99% of the times (I wish) I truly thought after seeing JW2, I KNOW SOME COUNTRY FOLK THAT WOULD HAVE A HELLUVA TIME FIGHTING OFF PEOPLE FOR HIM. So here we are, balls deep into my imagination.**

 **Suzzie: EXCELLENT. Did it have you on the edge of your seat!? I hope so! I was a nervous wreck writing it. Oooof.**

 **Guest(s):Thank you!**

 **Your Delusional Fantasy: ANOTHER TEXAN. This is for you! US! We got all the guns!**


	13. Chapter 13

With the threats eliminated, Logan could finally _calm_ down. Unfortunately, as she did, pain coursed it way anew throughout her body. The wound along her shoulder re-ignited, while her legs visibly trembled; weary from her adrenaline fueled exertions, her right knee began twitching uncontrollably.

The scene before her was nothing short of a crime riddled display; bullet ridden vehicles, numerous empty shell casings scattered in all directions, the sliding door to her home gaping open . . . bloodied corpses set against the backdrop of an ominously dark sky. Dropping the dead man's arm, she pulled her blade free. Blood coated her hands, and spatters of it were mottled across her thighs and clothing. Logan's tangled hair was in spectacularly wild disarray; her filthy, disheveled locks framed her grimy visage as she slowly took in the quiet results.

Logan dragged her wide-eyed gaze to John, feeling her heart soar in response at the mere sight of him. Fresh from a shower, his wet hair was slicked back, his facial hair neatly groomed. The form fitting, dark shirt hinted at his muscled arms and chest, and was untucked over neatly pressed khaki pants. The only blood Logan could see is upon his hand that gripped the bone from man's scapular compound fracture.

Though pain continued to radiate through her like a flowing tide, seeing John unharmed alleviated her emotional turmoil. _They would live to see another day._ Exhaustion quickly fell in step with her relief, now that his safety was verified and Logan faltered in place. Her hand gripping the Ka-Bar tightly as she stilled, too fixated was she on the pain that weaved through her, strung out from the subsiding adrenaline; it hurt to even breathe.

 _How did John do it? How did he manage to look so calm and composed and she couldn't?_

Logan reacted like a terrified, rabid animal when the men first arrived, crawling through a creek and clambering up rocks. And then, there was John, impassive as he was steadfast.

Face shrouded with mild concentration, he nonchalantly stepped over the mangled body and stalked towards her, **a man of focus**. She wondered _what_ would it take, to stir a man like John Wick. What made his heart race? _Did it ever?_ What made him smile? _Could he even?_

 _No_ , Logan realized, death and gore were nothing foreign or unknown to John. It was an extension of him―in his air and his deportment. As new and startling as her evening turned, it was nothing more than trivial for him.

This sudden clarity should have frightened her―and perhaps it did; instead of repelling her, it only fueled and strengthened her infatuation, darkened it with an intense longing, desiring to understand him, to learn from him.

 _She wanted to feed the beast that was John Wick._

Upon reaching her, John gently peeled her bloody fingers away from the black hilt, releasing the blade from her white-knuckled grip. It clattered against the concrete as he tossed it aside. Stepping closer, his eyes methodically moved over her, taking in her wounded shoulder and every additional injury she acquired during her hazardous journey from one end of her property to the other.

Logan closed her eyes, attempting to quell the combination of sharp pains and throbbing aches, focusing on John as he examined her wounds. She felt his hands gently cup her chin, carefully tilting it in all directions, mentally cataloging every nick and rash she got when the bike crashed. He investigated the bruising along her upper arms, including the gunshot wound, which had finally stopped bleeding.

He circled her slowly; too weary and exhausted to move, much less guess his thoughts, Logan stood quietly, working to breathe around the pressing pain. Then she felt his hand brush her thick braid over her shoulder and his rough fingertips tracing across her upper and lower back, actually moving her clothing aside to view any wounds hidden beneath the fabric.

As the seconds turned to minutes, Logan's knee worsened. The faint tremble had become much more, and began quaking beneath her.

Testing its strength, she shifted her weight and it buckled immediately.

Logan braced for the hard concrete, but John's arms came around, catching her before she fell.

Sagging against him, she dragged her boots against the concrete, forcing herself to stand back up. Wincing sharply as she rose, despite her knee markedly trembling in protest, Logan stubbornly managed to stand―but not without his assistance. She must have bruised it when the bike dropped on top of her leg. _But why did it hurt to breathe?_

"Can you walk?" John asked, reminding Logan of the time she asked him that very question the first night they met.

 _Were they going upstairs?_ If so, _probably not._

"Yeah," she murmured, "I can walk."

Determined, Logan took one step and her knee immediately collapsed, a shooting pain emanating from her injured knee spread upward, forcing a terse grunt to punch out of her mouth. Before she could fall, John carefully eased her downward, supporting her body weight; Logan swallowed a whimper. She could not allow such an admission of weakness, with John so close. That would be for later, when she was alone.

"Put your arm around me,"

John's low, gruff instruction sent shivers along her arms. Logan did not hesitate. Shamelessly, she clung to him; placing one arm behind his shoulders, the other across his chest, she laced her fingers together, and held on, glad for the excuse to touch him. Every nerve in her body screamed in pain and in excitement, but mostly pain.

Mindful of her injuries, John's upper torso dipped closer, and Logan caught a faint whiff of his rich shampoo; carefully, he placed his arms behind her knees and back, cradling her gently and securely in his arms. Against her body, Logan felt his taut chest muscles moving beneath her fingertips as John adjusted his grip upon her, avoiding contact with the worst of her injuries.

"Ready?" He asked, glancing at her.

Nodding in reply, Logan's lustful explorations vacated her thoughts as her body tensed in anticipation; she buried her head into his chest, pressing her lips against his shirt to stifle her moan of pain when he stood. Logan almost didn't catch herself in time―to stop the overwhelming urge to bite him.

Despite the circumstances, Logan's heart swelled painfully, euphoria blooming, battling her afflictions while being in John's arms. even if the scenario was a mocking caricature of what _should_ have been a romantic experience, a dream Logan secretly longed to come to fruition, and envisioned on her wedding day: when her newly minted husband would sweep her up in his arms and carry her over the threshold of their home, to begin their lifetime of wedded bliss, except this was not a perfect world and John was not her husband.

Instead, John Wick's long, purposeful strides were carrying her through her back yard, littered with carnage and destruction, past two dead bodies, the remains of the third assailant in the wilderness, somewhere on her property. As he drew closer to the open sliding door, Logan shoved her fantasy aside. Determined to not surrender even a shred of her heart's desire to a man who did not want her, Logan refused to even glance at his face. Instead, she kept her eyes forward as they entered the house, at the exact moment her father and another man barreled through the front door.

* * *

As they drove down the highway, en route to Logan's home, Caldron tossed his phone into the cup holders within his truck's center consol, frustrated that his daughter wasn't answering the phone.

"Still no answer?" Kennedy asked from the passenger's side; arm resting out of the opened window, he was enjoying the feeling of the wind blowing through his fingertips.

"Naw," he muttered, returning his hand to rest at the steering wheel's 12 o'clock. "Prob'ly outside messin' with the ranch. Last few days have been pretty busy for her."

Through the corner of Caldron's eye, Kennedy nodded.

They drove in companionable silence; soon, Caldron's eyes immediately saw the broken fence line along the right side of the road. Braking quickly, they came to a near complete stop, solemnly noting the heavily damaged portion parallel to the highway. Leaning over the console, Caldron peered through the passenger's opened window towards the toppled barbed wire.

"What's that look like to you?" he asked, even though the answer was evident.

"Like someone done ran through the barbed wire." Kennedy drawled, chuckling. "I bet you anything that busted their damned tires. Prob'ly some fool kids on fourwheelers." Caldron wished his friend was right; he hoped it was that simple, but he knew better; his gut instinct told him otherwise.

"Shit," Caldron cursed and muttered something under his breath as he slammed the gas pedal down. Kennedy used his hands and feet to brace himself against the truck's roof, floor and dashboard as they sped along.

"What the hell's gotten into your bald head?" Kennedy yelled as they flew around the bend that dipped into a valley of steep crags and cacti. Caldron ignored him; taking an immediate right, he followed the dirt road towards Logan's property, the tires kicking up billowing plumes of dust in their wake.

After they cleared the damned, too-slow-to-open gate, Caldron peeled out―tearing up the driveway.

"What the hell, Caldron?! Dial it down, son! You'll give yourself a stroke!" Kennedy advised his friend, bewildered at the man's explosive reaction. Caldron didn't answer, afraid of what he'd discover. The awful memory of coming home to his battered wife and ransacked home returned with a vengeance― _Jennifer had not been answering the phone either_.

Ahead, he was relieved to see the home wasn't set aflame; however, the presence of an unfamiliar car next to Logan's, an old Mustang in perfect, mint condition, did not ease his mind.

"My God―look at that beautiful thing . . .!" Kennedy gasped with awe at the American muscle car. "Is that yours?"

"The hell it is," he snarled as he slammed the gear shift into park, barely able to free himself of the restraining seat belt fast enough, before jumping out of the truck. Puzzled, Kennedy found no cause for alarm, Caldron thought otherwise as he raced for the front door. His friend was close on his heels―in case something was afoot. Caldron threw the front door open the same moment John Wick entered the house through the patio door.

Caldron slid to a halt; the burly man behind him managed to avoid crashing into him as he, too, came in with hot pursuit. Both Kennedy's and Caldron's wide eyes took in the scene before them. Blood and broken glass trailed a macabre path along the hardwood floor . . . leading to John Wick. Caldron's heart literally almost stopped in his chest when he saw Logan in Wick's arms, covered from head to boots―in blood.

" **What the fuck is going on!?** " Caldron bellowed, too shocked to move.

Upstairs, John's dog was barking and whining incessantly. Beyond the windows, they could see a dark colored truck literally parked against the back patio, nearly running over the grill. The driver's window was busted. Looking between his friend and the unfamiliar man holding Logan, Kennedy's stance shifted; his beefy hand rested upon the bowie knife strapped to his belt, ready to take action at a moment's notice. Cautiously, he continued to look between them, body tensing. Taking his cue from Caldron's reaction to the situation at hand, Kennedy realized the stranger holding Logan was not a threat; he relaxed and lowered his hand.

Curiosity aroused, he wanted to investigate the room. Unfamiliar with John but well acquainted with Logan, Kennedy was comfortable enough to move around Caldron, examining the floor and other evidence of the obvious fight that ensued. Scuff marks from boots, sweeps of smeared blood, even tufts of hair mottled the floor. Caldron was not shocked by the sight, rather perturbed. Relieved that his daughter was not dead, the father strode towards Logan, ready to take her from John, who―after calmly meeting the older man's eyes, made no move to hand his daughter over to him.

"We had a few uninvited guests," John gruffly replied, stepping past him.

Caldron had no choice, but to watch John's retreating figure, with Logan's boots dangling off the side like a ragdoll.

 _This wasn't good_.

Logan said nothing as she passed, offering not much more than a blank stare. To remove Logan from John's arms may raise unwanted questions from Kennedy―as any father knew when he was being replaced. It was not a risk Caldron was willing to take; he must proceed with caution and handle the delicate situation as carefully while having his own questions answered.

He hated that he had to fib but what other choices were there? In truth, Caldron needed to keep track of the web of lies he felt he had no choice but to weave―lest the wrong words, the wrong actions tangle and ensnare them all, destroying what Caldron was working so very hard to protect―his daughter, his old friend Wick, and Kennedy, a virtual innocent caught up in this madness―as innocent as that maniac could be.

Caldron also did not want to lose Kennedy's respect . . . or friendship. John Wick's bleak circumstances made Caldron reevaluate his life; those he kept in it, who'd drifted out it . . . and how greatly past choices and misdeeds impacted the future. Wick was already mounting the stairs; Caldron's eyes briefly saw the last of Logan's boots drift from sight as they disappeared into John's bedroom. His stomach began to churn, filling with acidic, ill ease.

Ironically, the bald man had the formidable fugitive to thank, for this very moment. Had it not been for John, Caldron couldn't be standing here now, stricken with worry that something brewed between the two. His daughter was fully grown now...

 _Where did the time go?_ He asked himself, bewildered.

An accomplished, fiercely independent daughter that Caldron would not have if . . .

The surmounting realization continued: Logan and her mother would not be alive―if not for John Wick.

 _John fuckin' Wick . . ._

Blood and pain were his wake, infecting all who came into contact with him. Any sane man would have turned Wick away, but Caldron could not―not when he was presented with a Marker… Unwittingly, he and all Caldron held dear, had been dragged into the deadly, high-stakes game of the underground.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound . . ._

Even if his life depended upon it―which it certainly did―Caldron could not deny his friend, John. Beneath the undertow of his loyalty, he knew it could very well be the death of him and in turn, Logan.

But now his daughter was in far deeper than he anticipated.

People don't change, but times―they do . . . Or do they?

Caldron's head ached, his mind reeling from his disquieted thoughts. Forcing himself to calm down, Caldron focused on pushing it all aside; he would have to deal with it later.

" **Holy shit, Ryder . . .!** " Kennedy's soft voice floated towards him; standing at the back door, his friend was staring towards the pool.

"What?" Caldron blinked. "What is it?" Heavy boots crunched the glass littering the floor, gouging the hardwood beneath it, as he swiftly moved towards the rear of the house. At Kennedy's side, he followed his friend's gaze into the back patio. Before them lay a scene of death and destruction. Together, they walked outside for a closer inspection.

Two bodies lay face down on the concrete. Pools of blood bloomed from beneath unseen wounds, turning dark as it began to congeal. They'd just missed the action. Caldron felt as he did during the Iraqi war, when he'd kicked doors down―only to discover the house already raided and hulled of life. He remembered how pissed he felt coming in right after a SEAL or Ranger's raid, as if Recon were there to tie up their loose ends and were left with their sloppy seconds.

The smaller figure laid closest to the patio door―a shoulder bone jutting from his back; a heavier set man was sprawled spread-eagle nearest the pool's edge, his thickened blood contained by the sculpted edge; Caldron noted the deceased's back is drenched in blood, a clean tear in his dark blue uniform. Across the concrete lay the combat knife Caldron had given Logan for her eighteenth birthday, a solid black Ontario 498 Ka-Bar. He could see drops of dried blood tracing the knife's shadow where it rested.

"What in God's good name happened to this man's back?" Kennedy exclaimed, eyes trained on the flesh and bone protruding from the wound. "How the _fuck_ does that even happen, huh?"

Not many things made a Ranger like Kennedy gape in shock but, of course, John Wick just had to be the one. Caldron's gray eyes scanned the horrific display, merely grunting in response. He wasn't nearly surprised.

"Are these the people you're talkin' 'bout?" Kennedy inquired, shooting him a quizzical look over his massive shoulder.

"A few of them," Caldron stepped around him, mentally listing what would be required to pull the blood stains from the concrete. Wandering towards the truck, it was no surprise all tires were flat. The license plates were orange, reading 'New York' at the top.

 _So―someone had discovered John's whereabouts..._

Caldron felt his face grow hot; his head began to sweat and his finger tips tingled. He needed a drink.

"Damn," Kennedy breathed, dropping to a squat as he eyed the smaller corpse. "I thought you were talking about some poachers or some shit. Not this. These folks are thugs."

"Yeah well," Caldron trailed off, scratching his bald head. He'd made a promise to John, that was certain, but he hadn't anticipated just how detrimental that promise quickly grew. With that thought aside, the plan remained unchanged.

If anything, it gave him a better time frame; he must work meticulously faster.

Now that a small gang had discovered John's location, the news would spread faster than the fire of Caldron's personal defeat back in the Marines.

Sucking his teeth, Caldron wanted to pluck one of the dead men from the concrete and slap him for being so damn dumb.

"Well hell!" Kennedy bellowed, throwing his hands up. A sly grin spread across his face as he wagged his eyebrows excitedly. "Time to get the ghillie suit ready!"

"Kennedy . . . you don't have to mix up in this, brother-" Caldron said quietly; his friend's eye twitched, the fierce expression on his face caused the bald man to pause.

"The hell I don't! You take those damned, fool-words back, or I'll kick your flat ass from here to San Antonio; is your bald head missin' brains as well as hair?! You an' Logan are family. And if that there's her man, so's he; we look after our own!" putting his large hand out, Caldron grasped Kennedy's in a heartfelt, affirming handshake.

"I'ma make some phone calls to a few buddies of mine; just so's you and Logan know - I'ma callin' down the thunder, and hell's comin' with me - I'm in it to win it. Now, d'you mind?"

"Not at all!" Caldron replied, grateful for his friend's support. The mustachioed man spun on his heel, practically strutting back into the house.

And that was how Caldron managed to wrangle the aid of a few Army Rangers.

* * *

 **HOLLY THE GREAT should be your name.**

 **Guest(s): Thank you! We still have an arsenal of weaponry on standby *wags eyebrows***

 **lilmissbrave: Well, I don't want to make her some BAMF. I still want a believable OC, a humble Texan if you will. But I'm glad you think so! Little miss Brave!**

 **Your Delusional Fantasies: You understand better than most the instant bond Texans hold for each other. You're also really close to Comfort, Texas. I'm JEALOUS. I've never been. (I live in Fort Worth―yeehaw)**

 **Sylarfan: Perhaps I should have put more emphasis on him. Welp, nonetheless, HE DEAD.**

 **jayjay0815: No worries! Of course, like any writer, I LOVE reviews. Y'all make me laugh.**

 **Suzzie: Good! And thank you! I have help getting the words out. It's all trapped in my head and takes some coaxing (and beer) to find my muse!**

 **Inkandtrees: Thank you. I think I have the most fun drawing blood and shooting guns!**

 **Thanks for the reading/reviewing!**


	14. Chapter 14

**This chapter is almost 5k damn words, I'm sorry, but Inkandtrees _really_ wanted to know.**

 **grab a beer, change ya socks, and enjoy... _for now._**

* * *

Very carefully, John eased Logan down from his arms and onto the cold countertop of his bathroom. His dog stood outside the doorway, staring down the staircase towards the commotion. Trying her best, Logan bit into her lip to thwart any admissions of pain. Now that her father was here _and_ Kennedy―who she hadn't seen in years―it was time to pretend she was a tough cookie.

 _A battered, burnt, crumbling cookie with dirt rubbed all over, but whatever._

Logan heard heavy foot falls ascend the steps. On the bottom floor was Kennedy cackling like always, possibly on the phone. John's pet set his ears back, wiggling his whole body as he wagged his tail, obviously pleased with the newcomer.

Pausing on the landing, her father glanced left, and then right, before discovering she was in the guest bedroom while John drew the shower door back and twisted the water on full blast.

As Caldron advanced through the door, Logan witnessed her father visibly weaken at the sight of her, the expression on his face and the way his gray eyes, so much like her own, glistened and almost spilled over with tell-tale moisture. His reaction increased Logan's awareness of the wreck she presented.

"Don't," she grumbled, not wanting any pity from her esteemed father―and certainly not any doting, paternal love―in front of John. Logan was a grown woman with bills and credit and a mortgage, _thank you very much_. However, there was a small portion in her heart that shriveled up at denying herself her father's comforting affection.

"I know," he sighed, peering at the wounds along her shoulder and legs. "What's the verdict? Anything I can do?"

"No, the bullet just grazed me," Logan muttered softly; her eyes moved quickly over her person, assessing her wounds as she detailed her injuries. "I hyper-extended my knee crashing the bike," she indicated at the side of her thigh a large rash embedded with dirt. "And I've got some bruising on my ribs from when I hit the ground; thankfully, nothing's broken and the motor burned only a small part of my leg―nothing a little _R &R_ won't fix." Logan knitted her brow, perplexed, especially after noting Caldron's shifty expression; she _knew_ that look.

 _What was her father up to?_

"Holy shit, Logan," her father risked glanced at John who rummaged through a cabinet across the large bathroom; Caldron looked uncomfortable. He had something to tell her, for her ears alone; not finding what he sought, John began to search the drawers beneath.

Caldron cleared his throat for the sake of noise.

"But you're alright?" he asked; he obviously was not going to tell her in John's presence. It would have to wait. Fine by Logan. If it was important, Caldron would tell her _immediately_ , of that she had no doubt. Caldron reached for the bathroom cup on the counter, filling it from the tap to the brim with water, before handing it to her. She smiled her thanks, realizing how thirsty and dehydrated she felt.

Eagerly, she drained the cup. "I am; John's taking care of me." Logan assured him with a quenched sigh.

Caldron paled at her words, looking like he was about to be sick. Taking the empty container from her, he filled it again and handed it to her before clearing his throat a second time. _He **was** nervous._

The fiercely protective, paternal side of Caldron wanted to stop all further progress, forcibly take Logan away from him, tend to her himself, but … he remembered that _damned_ lie he told Kennedy. After all his efforts to get Logan a decent country boy, it would be just like her to flutter her lashes at some damned city slicker. And not just any city slicker―it just had to to be _**John**_ _**Wick**_ , the underworld's elite. Caldron knew far too much about the _Baba Yaga;_ as her father and righteous protector, allowing _something_ to grow between them galled him deeply and set his nerves on fire.

He hadn't actually thought something was going on. But Caldron knew her better than she knew herself, and was greatly dismayed to see how she practically clung to the man; _his daughter_ , who steadfastly refused all comers, was content to remain in John's arms, even when Caldron was ready to take her from him; his gut instinct stirred in warning when he saw how carefully, almost tenderly Wick held Logan in his arms . . . there was something undefinable about the set of the younger man's face, something in his cool, composed expression, the unmistakable challenge in his dark eyes for Caldron to stand down as he prepared to relieve John of his daughter. Caldron fervently hoped he would not be kicking himself in the ass for speaking his fears into existence, when he uttered those fateful words to Kennedy; hoping against hope the lie will not _become_ the truth.

He wearily rubbed his furrowed brow and said, "Well, Kennedy's making a few phone calls―gonna rally his gang together. I'm gonna make some trips around the property, set some traps, check the sensors and all that. Mend that damn fence―bastards ran right over it." Logan nodded as she finished her second cup of water, feeling somewhat better, now that the water cooled her scorched throat.

"There's another body out there," she whispered, "He's over by the creek, nearest the highway―and bring my wheelbarrow back, please. There's a storm coming."

"Well then," he finally muttered, before sighing and turning away. "We'd best get t' work."

Caldron left just as John located the first aid kit in the cabinet; the roar of the shower distracted Logan from her thoughts as he came to her side.

"Are you ready?" he glanced at her with his dark eyes before lowering them to rifle through the first aid kit's contents.

"Normally, I would say yes." Logan swallowed, "But right now, I'm not entirely sure."

Producing surgical bandage scissors from the small kit, John started at the hem of her tank top and cut a path towards her collar. The fabric fell away, slipping from her shoulders as she shed the cloth. Logan's throat felt tight, dreading the inevitable shower. Despite the water she just drank, Logan felt parched; she swallowed, her throat knotting closed from nervous anticipation.

Next were her shorts; encrusted with blood and soot, she carefully leaned back to facilitate his progress, cautious of the scissors, despite the protected tips. John efficiently sliced through one side of the ruined fabric, and then the other, ever mindful of her injuries. Soon, the waistband was severed. That, too, was pushed away from her hips, leaving her in her underwear and bra.

Grimacing as she sat up, John helped her ease off the counter, and helped her to stand mostly on her good leg, as the other leg was unable to bear much weight or movement. Pivoting on the heel of her good foot, Logan turned her back towards John, planting her hands onto the counter top for balance; unfortunately, the mirror revealed her shambled state. She was a _mess_. Her dark hair was in tangles, the braid barely a braid, resembling more of a frayed knot. Bruising had already claimed her pale, freckled skin, a trait from her father: gray eyes, freckles and the easy-to-bruise disposition.

John stood directly behind her. Face impassive as always, their stares met in their reflection; his eyes gave no indication of his thoughts as his hands gently rested on her hips, his thumbs slipping into the waistband of her lacy underwear.

Mortified, Logan dropped her gaze; resisting the siren's call to lose herself in his eyes, not wanting him to see in _her_ eyes an unrequited desire for him, and how badly her heart was pleading for his touch, or a caressing whisper . . . _anything_. Logan never longed for such things before.

 _What made it so difficult now? What made John different than the rest?_

Swallowing thickly, the knot in her throat tightened even while her nerves came to life with both fear and desire.

Heat spread across her cheeks as the fabric slowly, gently slipped down, before dropping into a small heap of her feet. Her skin prickled in response, coming to life beneath John's enigmatic gaze.

 _Say something. . ._

Against her back, he brushed his fingertips over the clasp of her bra―Logan slammed her eyes shut, carnal heat soaring into the pit of her belly. She knew she should be ashamed of herself, but she couldn't help it. _Why couldn't she help it?_ Logan was disciplined, but John was _dangerous_.

Lifting the the straps away from her shoulders, the delicate garment slid down the expanse of her arms. Pulling one arm free, she brought it over her chest, shielding her breasts as the other tossed the article aside.

Now she was completely naked; a chill puckered her skin, even though the room was stifling hot. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel her frenetic heart kicking against her ribs.

John's hands came upon her shoulder, gently steering her from the counter towards the shower. Walled in by stacks of round, smooth river stones reaching the ceiling, the large, waterfall shower head was suspended overhead. Dark, slate tile covered the floor, and a wooden bench jutted from the wall.

The shower door was already open as he gently helped her in. Reaching through the falling water, Logan palmed the wooden bench beneath it, carefully lowering herself onto its perch.

Though it fell gently, the water still assaulted her injuries, wounds flaring to life, but it did not affect Logan so; her heart sang a different tune as she adjusted the temperature. The hot deluge bit sharply into her open wounds. Around her, John stepped away, closing the glass door behind him. He left, shutting bedroom door close. Logan began gingerly began to clean herself as best as she could. As the water flowed soothingly over her body, Logan forced herself to relax. As her dark hair soaked, she freed the tie and pulled the braid apart.

Moving hurt. Breathing hurt and Logan could not bend her knee, which had turned an angry dark reddish purple and swelled around the edges of her knee cap.

In spite of the pain, she gritted her teeth and worked away the remaining filth, vigorously scrubbing for and rubbing until her skin flushed. Removing all traces of the remaining dirt and blood from beneath her scraped hands and ruined fingernails required more effort, before she moved onto other parts. Lathering her hair with shampoo, Logan carefully worked to unsnarl the tresses, the water sluicing her road rash and bullet wound, the injuries stung smartly as she worked. Beneath the steady water fall, Logan sat and sighed deeply, hanging her head low as the suds and falling water traversed her bruised figure.

 _What a day..._

Now finished, the tension and pain that reigned her began to lessen. Though the immediate threat was over, Logan knew it would be the first of many; that this was _just_ the beginning. Luckily none of her injuries were debilitating. A compression wrap could be applied to her knee. If she kept it iced and elevated, in a week it should be healed enough to function adequately. The bullet wound could be stitched and easily hidden from sight. The challenge was finding a plausible excuse for missing work while she healed.

Finally, she needed to remain focused and stop pining and obsessing over John Wick―it wasn't going to happen. Logan was _very_ foolish to allow herself to entertain the possibility of having a chance with the complicated, mysterious man who suddenly came into her quiet, structured life with the hounds of hell nipping at his heels. Now was _not_ the time for romance, not in the least. There was much on the man's mind certainly. Not when a horde of mobsters and crime lords were foaming at the mouth for his outrageously high bounty. How much was he worth anyway? she wondered. Was it better if it remained unknown? If she was risking her life for his safety, Logan thought, she needed more answers.

 _Such a silly girl..._ she chided herself.

In time, John returned. A small pile of clothes in his hands.

Seeing that Logan was cleaned, he turned the shower off and proffered a towel, keeping his eyes politely averted. Logan wordlessly took it from him and wrapped it tightly around herself. He drew the door open, effortlessly scooped her up from the bench and slowly backed out, careful to not jostle or bump her injured leg. When they entered his bedroom, Logan saw what kept John occupied while she showered. Across the bed were bandages, gauze, and a small first aid kit. The dog was gone, perhaps downstairs with Kennedy and her father. It felt like hours since her home was literally invaded; death lay at her doorstep, her haven's peace was violated with destruction . . . so much bloodshed in mere minutes.

Easing her down gently, she lifted her feet as John helped her don a clean pair of panties. Logan blushed at his selection. There was not much to the lacy confection; Logan splurged on her intimate wear, purchasing matching sets in colors and styles flattering her skin tone and figure. It pleased her greatly, her little secret―beneath her flight suit and clothes, knowing er foundation garments were utterly feminine and how they made her feel . . . _desirable_. Logan wondered what John thought as he searched her dresser drawers for the items he brought. Beyond her coarse exterior, she was still a woman; a woman who wanted to be desired.

 _Now was not the time,_ she sternly told herself when frustration crept in the back of her mind.

Her thoughts were interrupted when he pulled the delicate fabric up, past her thighs and hips, his hands disappearing beneath the edge of her concealing towel, and just as quickly, they were gone. Logan poked her head through a baggy t-shirt, as John guided her arms through the short sleeves, until the fabric hung over her towel. With Logan's help, he managed to dress her without seeing her naked a second time; together, they did a remarkable job of simultaneously preserving her modesty and dressing her without further injury.

Rolling her sleeve up, John sprinkled powdered antibiotics into her flesh; Despite her condition, Logan was able to hide any expression of discomfort as he sutured her arm. He gently smoothed antibiotic salve over her road rash and applied silvadene ointment to her burn wound before dressing and wrapping them with clean gauze bandages. John efficiently wrapped her sore knee, compressing the injury before he once more lifted her into his arms. The heat of his body further relaxed her; weary, she rested her head against him, and laid in his arms, quieting her mind as her body welcomed his warm proximity.

A level of fatigue that Logan had never known before, came like the day's fast approaching storm. Her eyelids drooped shut as John carried her towards her bedroom. Despite the fact her father was home and downstairs having―what sounded to be―a jovial time, sleep was the only thing Logan wanted for the time being.

Sleep and John Wick.

Having the foresight to prepare her room while she was in the shower, John wordlessly put Logan gently into her bed, elevating her bad leg with pillows before he drew the covers over her. To be cleaned and bandaged was one thing; to be off her feet and gently tucked into bed by him was entirely different matter.

Gratitude warmed her cheeks as she snuggled comfortably under the weighted blankets. A part of her wanted to take his hands and pull him beneath the sheets, to share her bed and the warmth of his body. For everything he'd done for her, it was the least she could do. Albeit, the more insecure part of Logan reminded her; _John was not hers to be had._

"Thank you." she quietly murmured, her eyelids were simply too heavy to keep open. Unable to draw back the heavy curtain of sleep descending upon her, she slipped away into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

Pulling up a chair to her bedside, John sat quietly, watching her body relax. He waited until Logan's breathing slowed to a deep, steady rhythm when she fully succumbed to her exhaustion. He knew he must leave and head downstairs, but his feet were rooted to the floor. Reaching over, he brushed a tendril of hair from Logan's cheek.

Outside, dark clouds hung low, obscuring the moonlight and muting the stars' brilliance. A flicker of lightning illuminated the distant hills. As he sat in the dark, John contemplated Winston's ominous warning.

" _Have you thought this through . . . ? You dip so much as a pinky back in this pond, you may well find something reaches out_ ― _and drags you back into its depths . . ."_

In time, John knew better than Caldron, that _they_ would find him―and _they_ had.

 _Everything's got a price…_

He got up from his chair and eased himself down onto the edge of Logan's bed.

Tending to her was as simple as sutures and gauze. _Life was never that easy_. It was unforgiving, especially to Helen. If only what was required to mend Logan would be the remedy for his wife's illness, John would be ecstatic; Helen would still be with him today.

 _And he wouldn't be here now..._

Half of Logan's face was turned toward him, burrowed into the soft pillow; one arm tucked beneath it, the other carelessly draped across the dark gray, down comforter, palm down, fingers slack, as if unconsciously reaching for him.

John wished it was Helen he was touching; he remembered when they met with her team of physicians; how with somber voices, and clinical detachment upon their care worn faces, they delivered the devastating news,

 _"...prognosis is irreversible . . . terminal,"_

They held each other tightly as they braced for the inevitable end; in the small conference room, surrounded by medical grade disinfectants permeating the air, masking the odors of illness and death, the awful spectre of Helen's illness loomed over them. Their once-bright future was forever dimmed and cast in shadows.

At that moment, John was determined to pack as much life and love into the remaining time together, while Helen could still _live_. . . When they were strolling the boardwalk together one night, Helen collapsed into his arms. The last stage of her illness had arrived. Later, the doctors medically induced her, slipping her into a quiet, painless coma. For weeks, John did not hear her laugh or watch her lips curl into a smile. There was nothing more to be done, but keep his heartbreaking vigil at her bedside, the silence broken when the intercom system announced orders and paged doctors and nurses to patients' rooms, the hushed conversations of the staff.

They could not talk about their lives, recall fond memories, or appreciate all that Helen had brought into his dark world.

 _He was alone,_ _**so very alone.**_

John was unaware of time's passing, as he listened to Helen's often labored breathing―now accompanied by the soft whirring and beeping of machines artificially extending her life, doing what her heart, lungs and kidneys could no longer do on their own.

John wondered if this made her suffer. If, beneath her peaceful exterior, she was begging to die, to be freed. The thought would seize him with a fearful sense of loss and then immediate regret. There was no part of John that wished to lose her, yearned to remain hopeful and optimistic.

But the inevitable moment arrived, when John had to make that terrible decision. The doctors provided him the answers he desperately wanted to hear:

" _...irreversible...terminal…"_

John never imagined he would watch his wife, his very heart, perish before his eyes. She deserved a quiet, peaceful passing.

He turned his eyes back to the sleeping figure.

Logan was _not_ tethered to a machine. Her breathing was natural and strong―not meticulously calculated, entered onto a keypad, and monitored by medical staff; death did not hover over her, edging closer with every rise and fall of her chest. Machines did not measure and drip-feed man-made nutrients into her depleted body, in order to prolong t _he inevitable, the irreversible, the terminal._

To 'retire' and marry the woman who loved him, John _literally_ killed to build a life with Helen. In order to live his dream and protect her, to spare her the ugly truth of his dangerous past and lethal profession, John carefully kept it hidden by burying it. As if the shadowy underground and its lucre could be easily concealed beneath a slab of concrete. Keeping it, John knew his calm future with Helen could never be completely severed from his insidious past.

It was a life that was better than he deserved.

John determinedly pushed his grim thoughts away, before an all-consuming guilt could take hold and settle within him.

He thought of nothing, felt nothing; he couldn't allow himself to, as he slipped the wedding ring from his finger and quietly placed it on the nightstand next to Logan's bed. The blue light from her digital clock bathed the tungsten ring in its lurid glow, as it rested upon the dark wood. John brought his gaze back to the sleeping woman.

In the darkness, against the pillow, Logan's hair flowed like black flame, much darker and longer than Helen's shoulder length tresses. Her eyes, so unlike the steady, warm, chestnut brown Helen possessed, alternated from pale and alluring, to the color of a brewing storm; Helen's nose was not dusted with freckles, like Logan's. Tall, refined and educated, Helen was closer to John's age, and they enjoyed many common interests; petite and athletic, the top of her dark head just barely reached beneath his chin; Logan was as wild as the Texas land, fiercely independent and . . . _much younger_ than he. Though vastly different from one another, the two women shared one thing in common― _they would both die knowing John._

Downstairs, Caldron and his cohort howled with laughter. Logan twitched but did not wake.

John thought nothing, felt nothing, but one thing.

 _ **Helen…**_

In a moment, though infinitesimal, it felt the equivalent of another lifetime: John granted himself a moment to feel. Helen's soft voice, her gentle words, spoken with great affection, was an echo of distant memories conveying the warmth of her love and friendship that grounded him, reminding him of his humanity.

" _. . .what are you doing, John?"_

Her images― _their_ images of a life shared, was utterly consumed in the fire devouring their once beautiful and happy home. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to see Helen's likeness in his mind's eye, as clearly as he had before. Unfortunately, and with great sadness, he could feel her image softly blur, fading from him; yet the feeling of comforting assurance remained.

Before his phone was destroyed, and the last images of Helen with it, he frequently took solace in that precious moment, how she often looked at him, her eyes tender and adoring; that too, was taken from him.

Pain, his old friend, sank its sharp, serrated teeth into his heart, chewing until it took firm hold. It traced his spine like cold fingers, wrapping around his neck and whispering death's litany against his ear: _**the end was near.**_

From the swamp and mire of the underground, Death would come calling; not only for John Wick, but for all who dared to intervene―for whoever possesses the certain audacity to place themselves between the unrelenting gathering of Assassins, and the _Baba Yaga_ .

 _Caldron, Logan, Kennedy…_

 _Everything's got a price . . ._

As Logan slumbered on, John pondered her motives.

 _Was it still her father?_ Not anymore.

During the early days after his . . . arrival, John patiently endured the young woman's contempt and open resentment at his interrupting her solitary, ordered life. Logan avoided him most of the time, and he rarely saw her, respecting her unspoken request for solitude. A virtual prisoner of circumstances, John could not leave the house, not even to explore the surrounding property, lest he be discovered. Restless, frustrated and filled with impotent rage at his impossible situation, there were many occasions, when―rather than deal a moment longer with Logan's churlish attitude and outrageously rude behavior, he was sorely tempted to take his Dog, and leave. But that was not an option. Not when his Dog depended up him, the way Daisy depended upon him. John would not allow his Dog to suffer and perish as Daisy had. John had no choice but to stay, and contemplate how to survive . . . if that were even _possible._

 _Fortis fortuna adiuvat_

Were his actions bold enough that fortune would still favor him? As John considered his very limited options, something changed between he and Logan; thrown together by necessity of his pressing circumstances, and living in close quarters, in time, they fell into a pattern of a semi-peaceful coexistence, except for her markedly dwindling and occasional snide comment or caustic remark. With nothing to fill his days, save rest, heal, train and play with his dog, he contributed to their keep, preparing meals for Logan, and by keeping the house spotless; John minimized his presence and footprint upon her life. He was well aware when she became less prickly, less contentious, and when she began to seek him out.

Instead of leaving the meals he prepared for her untouched, eating alone in her room, or waiting until after he'd eaten and left the kitchen, Logan emerged from her hiding places, or remained in the same room as he and his Dog. A keen observer of human behavior and well versed in all matters of the flesh, possessing intimate knowledge of human anatomy, John had already shown Logan his use of major pressure points, and how he can easily inflict great pain. His arsenal of devastating weapons, combined with lethal physical abilities and terrible knowledge of effective torture methods, are an integral part of him; however, it was set aside, for love of Helen . . . and Daisy; their loss created within him, an abyss, the vast chasm of which threatened to pull him into its bottomless, infernal chaos. However, Logan's fateful choice caused him to . . . perhaps _reconsider_ , if only for a moment.

What she remained innocent of, is his ability to give much . . . _pleasure_. John was neither ignorant, or unaware, when Logan's feelings for him evolved from disdain, to guarded interest, and now, something else entirely; today, she revealed more―much more than when they kissed, much more than even _she_ realized. When she looked at John, he could see her heart in her eyes.

When the time came for Logan to choose―to _fight_ or _take flight_ , without hesitation, she chose John. Logan had no reason to fight for him. They wanted him, not her. They could have had him, or tried to, at least. Logan would gain nothing; she had no vested interest in his welfare, much less his life. In truth, John's presence was threatening; the danger unavoidable. Anyone who involved themselves was forfeiting their lives, the odds of surviving this . . . _situation_ , was slim to none. The stakes were unimaginably high . . . winner takes fourteen million dollars, losers pay in spades.

 _Did she know that?_ How much _did_ she know?

Was she aware how every moment brought her a little closer, a little quicker to death? Would she still fight for him knowing this?

Regardless, given Logan's fateful decision, John could no longer allow it to go unacknowledged. If they were to survive, trust must be established . . . it should have been established from the very beginning. Instead, they avoided each other like the plague.

John knew time was of the essence, and trust was vital. He also knew sending Logan away was not an option; this was her home, and she made it very clear she wouldn't leave. John would secure her trust, and prepare her for what is to come; he must teach her all he can, and perhaps, in time, give her his trust.

 _Maybe . . ._

John reached for her a second time, intent on picking up an inky tendril, but stopped himself, eyes locking onto his naked ring finger. John curled his hand into a tight fist.

Forcing himself, he turned away and headed downstairs.

 _Si vis pacern, para bellum_

* * *

 **two hefty chapters in JUAN DAY! can you believe?!**

 **Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, here in the states at least. I'm ignorant elsewhere. So Happy Early St. Patrick's day!**


	15. Chapter 15

**"I might be so drunk I'll have to crawl home but by God I'll crawl like a Marine."**

* * *

"Welp!," Kennedy clucked, polishing the rest of his beer off before it clattered against the empty glasses already in the trash can. "That makes three. We got my buddy, Ayrie, from east Texas comin' and another fella' I met humpin' up the Hindu Kush mountains named Morgan, who said he's down for some plinkin and myself."

Trudging lazily towards the marble counter, he leaned, resting his folded his arms atop its cold surface, fixing Caldron with his unwavering gaze. "I reckon we got ourselves a cavalry'."

Pursing his lips, Caldron shook his head, frustrated. "It won't be enough."

"Hell, I know that!" Kennedy twanged before releasing an impressive belch. "Just give it some time. They'll be comin' outta nowhere once the goin' gets _gewd_. Especially when they realize little Logan's got her sights set."

 _And what more convincing reason then two star-crossed lovers hellbent on love to lure the cavalry in?_

 _Even the rough and rugged had a romantic side._

Caldron lifted his eyes towards the staircase just as John descended.

Kennedy followed his gaze, turning his thick neck to peer over an even larger shoulder. Caldron wondered how Kennedy managed to accomplish anything, much less fit into a ghillie suit and move with the stealth of a ghost. The man was solid―built like an oak tree and pushing 6'5',' he made the scales groan, easily topping 250 lbs. A strapping man himself, Caldron looked like one of them Ewoks compared to the towering Kennedy.

"Well, looky here." Kennedy drawled, coming to stand. "Speak of the devil himself. Don't believe we've met; name's Kennedy." He turned from the counter, meeting the man halfway with an extended hand.

"John," Wick replied. Taking a firm, confident hold of Kennedy's hand, their steady and respectful gazes met. Silently weighing and measuring the other, they gauged the other's reaction, sizing up both the man and the beast within. Kennedy smiled, obviously pleased with his assessment of the man.

"Now tell me if I'm oversteppin' my bounds here," he began, "But what in God's revered name's got you all tangled in _this_ much trouble?"

* * *

It seemed the moment Logan just closed her eyes, she was waking again. Outside, a quiet rain fell over the sloping hills, feeding the creeks and lake. Lazy rivulets traversed down the window panes, obscuring the murky, gray skies. It was a quiet storm, unlike the one that heralded John into her life.

She awoke in the exact position she fell asleep in, and felt a great reluctance to move. Familiarity with pain did not render her immune to its debilitating effects; she felt more like an old, rickety machine. Bones literally creaking, a dull, radiating pain flowed through every part of her body, competing with the sour-tasting nausea filling her mouth from her gnawing, sharp hunger pangs . Very carefully, Logan turned her head, wincing as every sore and tender muscle stiffly protested. Her neck felt whiplashed and her skin felt tightly wrapped around her achy bones.

Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape. The Army way.

 _Who knew she would utilize such training in her own back yard?_

Logan grunted at the irony. The three weeks she endured of being locked in a dark box and starved, followed by a rough extraction from her enclosure, only to be blindfolded, shoved, prodded and hustled into a truck for a lengthy jarring, rough ride . . . and then propelled out of the rear of said truck, and land sprawled onto the rocky ground, blindfolded, no less―dropped in the midst of unknown, simulated hostile territory, tracked and hunted, had finally come in handy. Her mission: survive the unknown elements, evade and resist certain capture. Plot and successfully execute her escape, should the unthinkable happen. Her Army training did serve her well―on the the roles are reversed; when John stumbled into her life during a storm that eventful night - terribly injured and literally at death's door, Logan had taken care of him without question, and of her own―somewhat reluctant―volition.

Now it was John's turn to return the favor; a debt repaid, no questions asked. He simply did it.

 _How long did she sleep?_

Logan glanced at the clock, but did not see the time. She couldn't, not when the tungsten ring immediately snagged her attention.

Slowly reaching for the silver band, intent upon securing her astounding discovery, the only sound Logan heard, the only sensation she felt, was the pounding of her heart in her ears.

Plucking it from the nightstand she carefully examined it.

Sighing, Logan dropped her hand into her lap.

 _Please, no..._

"Don't be John's ring," she whispered to herself, bringing the ring up again to study it more closely. It was not her father's; Caldron had a tattoo as a ring. Kennedy was not married; had been, but was too wild for most, and had no reason to wander upstairs and place anything on her end table.

Deep inside, her stomach twisted into a solid knot as she placed the ring into the palm of her hand. The question that overshadowed all else, and was incessantly loud in her mind: what did it mean and why?

Had something changed overnight?

Logan did not like change.

Curling her fist, she held the ring tightly against her palm a moment longer, before gently returning it to its resting place. It was most definitely real.

Downstairs, she didn't hear the raucous laughter that followed Kennedy wherever he went. She also didn't hear her father, who would certainly be up this early.

Very slowly, Logan brought her legs over the bed's edge. Planting her bare feet firmly against the rug along the floor, she stood, keeping one hand against the surface of her bed.

 _She needed to pee…_

After Logan tended to her bladder and morning ablutions, she carefully, at the pace of frozen molasses, and painstakingly, made her way downstairs.

The kitchen was cleaned, not an empty bottle or shot glass was in sight; Kennedy and her father were also nowhere to be found.

Leaning against the couch for support, Logan peered outside where she'd last seen the bodies. Both were gone, including the heavily damaged truck, and all that remained were the bloodstains, almost concealed against the wet concrete.

 _That would need to be removed_ , she mentally noted.

Logan limped, scooted and groped the rest of the way into the kitchen, grabbing the empty coffee pot. As it filled with water, her mind bounced from John's wedding ring, to the fight, before veering off to her father's growing league of _extraordinarily skilled_ individuals, and back to _that_ ring.

After pouring the water into the coffee machine, she readied the grounds and filter. Pressing brew, she hobbled towards a barstool and hoisted herself atop.

A heavy sigh filled the empty kitchen as Logan stared out into the early morning.

The machine clicked and bubbled.

A soft jingle drew her absentminded gaze towards the staircase. Having heard her commotion, John's dog ambled sleepily down the steps and then into the kitchen. Sitting upon his haunches at the foot of her barstool, he licked his chops; his pleading, glistening eyes looked up at her as he softly whined.

Logan furrowed her brow, puzzled. Then it dawned.

"Oh; you're hungry," she muttered, glancing around the kitchen. Logan didn't have any dog food that she is aware of. Perhaps her father had bought some for John to use, but after rummaging the cabinets with much difficulty, no kibble was discovered

When Logan glanced back at the dog, his long, slender tail wagged in response. Glittering, black eyes and a hopeful expression bore into into her, tugging gently at her heartstrings. A feeling she was not well acquainted with. Looking away, Logan outwardly scoffed. She didn't believe in pets, never really liked them.

Though . . . he needed to be fed.

Yanking the fridge open, she removed a package of thawed chicken, an egg, and a large, bright orange bowl from the cabinets.

Peeling the plastic bag, she dropped a breast and two drumsticks, and then cracked an egg atop it all. Using every inch of flat surface for support, Logan came back around and sat the bowl down before him.

"Shit," she grumbled. "Forgot your water."

After another series of hops, Logan managed to bring the dog a bowl of water. By the time she sat the water down, the dog had already cleaned up his meal and now licked the bowl, sliding the plastic across the tile from each application.

Moving his large head over the water bowl, he lapped the remaining water up greedily, slinging drops everywhere, filling the kitchen with the noise of his sloppy guzzle.

Pouring herself a cup of coffee, Logan finally sat down and relaxed. Wrapping her hands around the base of the mug, she sat quietly while the dog drank and then meandered around the room. He paused at the back door, subtly swinging his tail as he watched the storm. He turned away from the glass partition.

Staring unseeingly out the back patio, Logan felt a paw press into her leg. Glancing down, she spotted the Dog staring up at her once again.

Logan stared at him, and he stared back, the tip of his tail rhythmically sweeping the floor.

"I fed you," her voice cracked, from sleep or exertion, she wasn't sure. " _And_ gave you water."

His tail wagged even more, ears back, his bright eyes pleading wordlessly.

Logan reached down, pretending to hold a tasty morsel between her fingers, but the dog did not sniff or lick; instead, he pressed his broad forehead against her hand. His tail continued wagging furiously.

Frowning, she retracted her hand.

 _C'mon, Logan._ she heard her father's voice. _Don't be like that…_

"Fine," she grumbled.

Slipping from her barstool, she eased herself down, onto the floor, wincing as every muscle ached. Whining a happy note, he leaned his solid body against her, his tail smacked painfully at her wounded arm.

"Ooo! Ow! No, stop," she grimaced, pushing on his haunches until he sat. Still leaning against her, his rump slid further along the hardwood floor and nudged at her face, licking her chin and wriggling lower until he lay sprawled across Logan's lap. With his mouth wide open, displaying his large teeth in a canine grin, his pink tongue lolled out from the side. She palmed his chest, and then his stomach, before rubbing and scratching his belly. With every stroke, pat and scratch, he grunted, eyes closed, legs reaching skyward, his large paws relaxed.

Logan was enjoying herself immensely, though she would never admit to it. Her dealings with animals on her property were for game purposes; strangling snakes, and fishing on the small lake on the east end of her land to round out her menu was not unusual; nor was chasing skunks, or . . . killing the occasional, unfortunate stray animal in search of sanctuary on her property. Soon, Logan couldn't stop herself from cooing and inadvertently adoring the stocky pup. She squeezed his paws and poked at his dark, wet nose, before cuddling and tickling the pooch, laughing gently with delight at his antics, as she rubbed his silky ears. She marveled at the sense of longing, a feeling that so foreign to her. In fact, she was so focused on examining this newly named emotion, this _affection_ for a _dog_ , Logan hadn't heard John wake, nor did she notice him at the foot of the stairs, silently observing her.

A soft noise; a throat clearing.

Both dog and Logan froze, turning their heads towards the source.

Twisting around, the dog immediately jumped to his feet and scampered on his bowed legs to greet his owner. John knelt, accepting the canine's eager licks and nuzzles with gentle scratches and rubs against his short fur, before he stood back up and strode into the kitchen.

Logan reached up; gripping the edge of the counter, she hoisted herself back onto the barstool.

"How are you feeling?" he asked as he entered the kitchen.

A quick mental inventory of her physical hindrance told her to say ' _like smacked ass.'_ Quickly, she opted against the impertinent remark.

"Sore," she decided with a mutter, running the pad of her thumb against her cup. John opened a cabinet door and withdrew himself a mug. His choice was a black hand thrown cup with Benjamin Franklin's famous illustration of a snake dissected into thirteen parts, representing the original thirteen colonies. The only difference between the two being, instead of ' _Join or Die',_ it read ' _Coffee or Die'_ ―which Logan found rather humorous, even if it was a bit dark: with or without coffee, they were going to die. At this rate, she would be the first to go, she thought gloomily; for all her skill in _Krav Maga_ , Logan was dismayed to admit she learned how vulnerable she truly was.

Pouring himself a cup, John came to stand next to the large island, before taking a careful sip. He sat the cup down, staring at the ink-black surface with consideration, before turning his dark eyes towards Logan. It did not escape his notice, how she quickly averted her eyes, when he caught her staring at him. A small part of him was amused at her obvious discomfiture, despite her feigned nonchalance.

"We need to talk," came his voice, hoarse from sleep but still steady and assured―a trait she admired.

 _Again?_ she mentally groaned, inwardly steeling herself.

Logan recalled his wedding ring on her nightstand, and her stomach lurched in response. Swallowing thickly, she felt a blush warming her cheeks and ears, her nerves besting her.

Finding her voice, though small, she asked. "About what?" Silently begging him to remain silent about his ring. Logan utilized every ounce of her discipline to avoid glancing at his left hand. John had that very hand wrapped around his mug, taking a measured sip, before setting it quietly back down. Logan refused to acknowledge any refraction of light glinting from his finger, even though she _knew_ it wasn't there.

"I want you to get dressed."

* * *

 **There's another chapter coming directly after this one. Another 'twoofer', because consolidated, the chapter was over 7k. That's way too much. Y'all have to eat at some point, maybe go to the potty or sleep! 7k is a lot for one sitting.**

 **Inkandtrees: I did it to show you I was listening to you! Much of the chapters are already written out. Holly and I just comb through them time and time again so no details are missed!**

 **jayjay0815: You know what's crazy? I don't get emails that you review a chapter. It's only you. You're a sneaky one.**

 **Your Delusional Fantasies: Now I'm VERY jealous! I've never been to Comfort. For all I know, it could be a dump. But its in the hill country and there's a 3.2 million dollar house there that inspired the details to Ryder's estate.**

 **Sylarfan: You like Caldron AND Kennedy?! This warms my heart that you like more than just the two main characters. Albeit, they all have a huge part.**

 **Suzzie: John is a conflicted being. Also stoic, so stoic. It's difficult to crawl in his head with there isn't much to go off expression wise.**

 **Guest(s): I'm so happy y'all enjoy Logan AND OMG THERE'S ANOTHER TEXAN! This is my first jab at an OC and I knew what I DIDN'T like about OCs so I tried to steer faaaaaaaaaar away from those traits.**

 **Mo Eazy: To keep it short and simple, the models used (between both movies) were two G17(a carbine conversion being one of them), two G26s, the G34 (which I saw on display at the most recent Shotshow in Las Vegas. Glock had the actual gun Keanu shot) and a G19. Then there's the two HKs in his trunk and a HK rifle. You see the ratio? Thus, I settled with Glock as his gun of choice.**

 **For your second question: Yes, Texas is a strong 2nd amendment state. But within that little chapter, I mentioned Kennedy likes to toss guns aside and fight with a knife. It safe to assume Caldron is always carrying, but barreling into a house his daughter is in guns ablazing didn't sit well with me. Logan didn't have hers on her because I wanted to pack more of a panicked punch when all she had was a Ka-Bar. Thank you for the outstanding reviews. It was all legitimate inquiries and I hope to hear more from you.**


	16. Chapter 16

After breakfast, Logan managed her way upstairs to prepare and dress herself without John's aid; though he offered, she adamantly refused.

Logan realized though, he hadn't much to say―John was a polite man. She'd even go as far as to say he was a _gentleman_ ; albeit, she preferred not to pay the man any compliments. Self directed, he took the initiative upon himself to dress her wounds. He was conscious of her pain, and tended to her gently and carefully. She _hated_ how much she _liked_ it.

Of course, Logan's heart and mind incessantly battled for dominance. In the moments her heart sang, she was quick to silence its glad, hopeful tune, with a metaphoric hammer. Now that his wedding ring sat upon her bedroom night stand, she wanted to ignore it

He waited for her downstairs; when she was ready, together they headed for the Mustang.

Practically falling into the low seat, Logan pulled her legs inside the car before he closed the door and came around to the driver's side; she studiously averted her gaze, looking everywhere and anywhere, in order to avoid looking at John. The interior was predominantly black leather but still held the same vintage dashboard and other polished wood accents. A few modifications had also been applied. John had swapped all three pedals with chrome plated version with small, round rubber grips to prevent slipping. Bucket seats were installed, the flooring and upholstery must have been just lately renewed. The car did not smell old or mildewy either. In fact, Logan safely assumed the vehicle recently underwent a massive overhaul.

 _Or John had kept the car in immaculate condition since the 1960s._

Once he closed his door, Logan immediately felt the proximity unbearable; his nearness and sheer presence was overwhelming. Pushing the keys into the ignition, the engine turned over, and then roared to life. Logan felt its deep, thunderous rumble from her rump into her very bones, not sure if she liked the way it rattled her teeth, or how she felt too low to the ground, as if she were being dragged against the earth. Even her dirt bike sat higher than John's muscle car.

John placed it in gear and rolled out of her front driveway, towards the gate. Sensing their approach, it drew open automatically. Coming out onto the dirt road, he took a left, heading for the highway.

They rode in silence as the Texas hill country slipped past, falling into the side view mirrors as the earth began to flatten the further north west they went.

John turned on the radio, dialing in a strong station until classic rock riffed through the speakers.

Steppenwolf's _Born to Be Wild_ filled the cab, loud enough to hear every word but soft enough a rumble of thunder snuffed it out. As it faded, the song returned.

 _We can climb so high…!_

 _I never wanna die…!_

The clouds released a trickle of rain that swiftly fell into a heavy deluge. Still, they remained quiet. The drum of the pelting rain and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers slid back and forth accompanied the reprise..

 _Fire all of your guns at once…_

 _And explode into space…_

Logan must have dozed off, because when she opened her eyes and looked about, Steppenwolf no longer played and they were parked at the foot of an old, rusted, abandoned silo penned in by tall, green corn stalks. Small holes chewed through by corrosion dripped rainwater like wounds against the metal structure. The hill country was gone and now only the flat, farming plains of Texas surrounded them. Twisting around, she eyed the cattle ranch across the road. The steers and heifers were resting in a gathered huddle, waiting the rain out.

The entire scene reminded Logan of the slasher film, Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It didn't ease her mind how far west they were and that they were actually in Texas.

Facing forward once again, Logan eyed John on her left sitting silently. He was studying a small black item in his hands.

Logan winced as she adjusted her feet; she glanced at what was in John's hand.

A flip phone…

"You have a phone?" she queried.

"No," he replied simply, further scrutinizing the device. He flipped it open before snapping it closed. Flipped it open. Snapped it closed.

Logan blinked, unsure how how to proceed. Sighing, she sat back against the leather seat and stared out the front windshield, following the trails of rainwater against the glass. She didn't know how far she was from Comfort, or why they'd come here to begin with.

Funny, she realized, the irony of her situation versus their location. Comfort was, in fact, the very last thing on their agenda.

Lifting her arms, Logan stretched them out, groaning softly against the pain that tightly clung to her taut muscles.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Logan reflected upon the moment she kissed him. For an instant . . . she believed he reciprocated, however briefly―before he abruptly left her.

Perhaps his disinterest in her was because he found her _too_ bold, _too_ forward. Even though, Logan was anything but. Perhaps she was? She was so distrusting towards everyone, she never gave herself the opportunity to pass anything more than professionalism. Everyone had an ulterior motive, she thought.

Residual guilt aside, as Logan thought back to that moment, no matter how much she assured herself to the contrary, she was beginning to believe John hadn't kissed her back.

The dawning realization that he hadn't was simply because he wasn't interested in her. This made Logan silently berate herself. But . . . as the old adage goes: _better to ask for forgiveness than permission. S_ he wanted to feel his beard beneath her hands, and his lips upon hers, and if that was all he was willing to give her, then Logan did not regret stealing a kiss from him.

Interrupting her thoughts, John opened his car door and stepped out into the rain. He slammed it shut and walked towards the hulled silo's door. The knob was missing and the small window above had been smashed. John tossed the device through the opening and headed back towards the car.

As he did, she watched him carefully. Noting how his arms swung confidently at his side, the certain boldness with each step as he traipsed through the uneven dirt. The terse intensity of his brow with his eyes are cast downward. She recalled their very first strife and how so much contact with him ignited a long dormant part of her. It seemed every passing hour with John, the more alive and unruly her thoughts and desires became. Feeling his hands grip her painfully, sending throws against her, the force behind his legs as they pinned her to the floor...

Logan sucked in a sharp breath and held it until her heart thrummed; the thoughts receded.

The door opened and John climbed in; the powerful car thundered to life beneath them when he turned the engine over once more. He smoothly pulled away from the abandoned building and back onto the highway.

Exhaling, Logan stared out the window, lost in thought and annoyed. _What was the point of her coming along if he just wanted to toss a cell phone into an abandoned silo?_

Frustrated, she pressed a palm to her face, leaning against her cold touch as her eyes closed. There was no one at the house. Maybe John brought her with him because he didn't want her to be alone.

 _Nonsense_ , she assured herself. _She was quite capable of taking care of herself._

 _However..._

Not until John came into her life, did she suddenly realize how alone and frail she truly was. All the years that passed, as Logan trained and improved, she never truly considered how she would react when a viable threat emerged. Now that multiple had arrived, she wondered what more could be done? Fully trained to fight, kill, fly, or shoot; it wasn't enough when the second wave hit. Sure, she made it out alive―but far from unscathed.

Risking a glance, she carefully eyed John. Both hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, relaxed but well in control. He was focused on the road and nothing else, apparently. Not her, not the scenery, not the music.

Something assured her she barely skimmed the surface that was John Wick.

Logan only caught a glimpse of the iceberg's tip. Who knew what lay beneath the intricately dark, still depths of this man? Only the shadows that surrounded and clung to him would know.

Staring quietly out the window as the hills gradually rose from the unraveling scenery, Logan listened to the radio. Another old school tune she didn't care to recall.

"That was a tracker," John spoke over the purring engine as they tore down the highway.

Logan furrowed her brow as she maintained her gaze towards the window. How did they manage to find a tracker?

"Kennedy found it." he added, apparently aware of the questions forming in her head.

"Where was it?" she asked, still staring into the granite hills. Her voice sounded odd; small and scratchy, like a kitten, when compared to his smooth, grave tenor.

"Wrapped around the drive shaft." A drop in pitch caused his voice to become a sultry caress. His nearness coupled with an intense glint in his eye had the power to make Logan breathless. Scrunching her nose, she abhorred the unwarranted response.

Nodding, she pursed her lips in thought, and re-crossed her arms. Kennedy must have covered every literal inch of the frame and undercarriage to discover the device; he was passionately meticulous when it came to old cars.

 _Great._ What other news did he have to share?

She risked another glance and asked if he knew who could be responsibly. He said he didn't know.

She inhaled, filling her lungs deeply before releasing a heavy breath. Squeezing her eyes closed, she mentally prepared herself for the rapidly approaching shit storm about to break. John had driven far out into the country to discard the tracker. He hadn't destroyed it, hoping the still functioning GPS would lead any assailants away from their last known location.

She prayed it worked. Perhaps it would grant them enough time for her to heal.

At length, they returned to the Ryder estate, only to discover a motley fleet of vehicles, from old farm trucks to newer, diesel engine models, and everything in between, spread across her lawn, and parked with their hoods pointing towards the house―causing Logan to instantly panic, her heart pounding, fearing the worst had finally arrived.

 _They finally honed in on her and John; all coming at once._

Every light in the house was on, and Logan worried that their time had run out, and that the mob had come, guns ablazing. For a fleeting moment, she saw her father's silhouette stroll across a window. He wasn't running or flailing limbs, no blood stained his chest or blouse. Nothing appeared to be amiss.

But Logan was not leaving anything to chance. Before John could fully place the car in park, she threw the door opened and managed to exit the low car without falling onto her face. She hurriedly made her way across the yard, grabbing onto the parked cars for support. Her injured knee screamed with every unsteady, lurching, hobbling, and stride.

Upon entry, Logan was met with a burst of sound. A raucous wave of laughter and loud conversations greeted her; her grey eyes widened in disbelief before they narrowed to flinty slits.

"Miss Logan!" A bystander cheered, causing her father to whip around. She recognized the man; for the time being, she paid him no mind.

Men of every size and ethnicity were present; whiskered, bearded and clean shaven . . . tall, short, round and toned.

Pausing in the foyer of her home, Logan stared mutely at the scene before her. Some men rested on the couch, others were gathered around the fireplace, elbow propped upon the mantle, a long neck in the other, as they conversed. More men were meandering outside, eyeing the blood stains upon the concrete; others were paired up, gesturing towards the hills, before looking back at the house, counting the windows, calculating eyes scanning the house's roof line as they continued speaking in low tones. Several more were comfortably seated at the dining room table, laughing over their beers and clutching their sides as stitch pinched them. The cacophony of voices, ranging from whispers to boisterous tenors filled the air.

Some men were more flagrant in proclaiming their branch affiliation; their meritorious badges of honor were proudly displayed, affixed on denim and leather for all to see; others were discrete and professionally attired; from slacks to denim and vested button-up shirts.

Though she recognized a great many, there were few she'd never seen before and that was not authorized. Caldron hadn't bothered to spare her with a warning.

In her haste to reach Caldron, disregarding all else, her frantic stumbling caused the compression wrap to loosen around her injured leg. Without its demi-support reinforcing her weakened leg, it began to buckle. Logan faltered; before she could fall, she was firmly pulled and held tightly against something solid; it was John. Undeterred, Logan's eyes scoured the crowd until she spotted her father. She lurched forward, intent on making a beeline for the bald man. Anticipating her move, John stepped in, dipping low so Logan could drape her arm across his shoulder as she moved. She winced, but gripped his shoulder tightly, as they made their way towards him. When she reached her father's side, she was panting, as well as anger.

"Speak of the devil!" Caldron smiled, sneaking a quick kiss against her cheek. "Like a beer?"

"Yes, actually." she muttered tersely. Logan's met her father's cautious gaze; the barely contained fury in her darkened eyes instantly put Caldron on notice of her great displeasure, with the promise of an unavoidable, spirited discussion pending. Hastily, Caldron turned away, drifting through the crowd of his militant cohorts towards the fridge. When he returned, she snatched the bottle from him and took a long, heady pull, fisting the sleeve of John's shirt as she drank. Around her waist, she felt John's hold tighten as if she was going to drink herself into a pratfall. Her bruised rib throbbed a reminder.

Bringing the bottle down, she glared into her father's eyes and sat it firmly against the countertop.

"Where did all these people come from?" she grumbled.

Caldron paused at the indignation written clearly upon her countenance. All around her, strangers and acquaintances sent curious glances her way. Many others openly eyed John, sizing him up. Their curious gazes lingered on the unknown individual.

Just what did they know about John?

Logan scowled as she locked eyes with someone unfamiliar, holding his stare until he conceded and looked away.

"Kennedy made...a few calls," Caldron explained, glancing around himself at the prattle that filled her home.

"A few?" she spat. "Did you not think to give me a heads up? This is too many people, _in my house!_ "

John only listened, uninterested or already informed, she wasn't sure. Her initial prediction now seemed true; she was the last to know.

"Now, Logan." her father began in a placating tone, "All these men are outstanding. They don't know who John is, trust me. I wouldn't bring men of that nature into my daughter's home. These fine lads are here to help." he concluded with a solemn nod.

Logan felt her throat restricting as she glared up at the person she loved the most. Always, when it came to Caldron, she was an emotional mess. Gauging him and predicting his approval was as much an uphill battle as it was a gamble. Had he not seen her efforts from the previous night? Technically, she killed two out of three men. John took care of one. _And!_ her thoughts reeled, _she killed the first intruder while John was sleeping!_ If _anyone_ could supply any help, it was her―not a plethora of rednecks he rallied together in a single night. Filling her home with strangers when she already had difficulties with _one_ ―was a sure way to piss her off. It appeared once again Caldron saw to the next development with or without her knowledge and it was because of him she was so distrusting. Now here he stood before her, after those three agonizing years, rallying his militia for a man she barely knew. Hell, he hadn't even given her the decency in explaining why he'd been gone for so long. Not a phone call or email, not even a postcard wishing her well.

 _And just like that―he shows up, dumping off a man just as complicated and quiet as he was dangerous, with the brutal hounds of hell coming in hot on this man's heels._

How was she supposed to handle this? What was the appropriate reaction aside from anger? Logan couldn't fathom. She felt absolute conviction and largely vindicated in her blistering response. They were keeping something from her . . . something dark and foreboding. Why else would he have all these men? Why would he go to such extremes for one man? Why had John arrived, inches from death, bleeding all over her couch? _He even had a bite mark!_

Wrenching herself free from John's grasp, she hobbled from the kitchen towards the stairs. Without looking back, she knew John remained behind; she knew Caldron watched her leave, and that she'd caused a scene, because the drone of voices lowered in volume ever-so-slightly.

Pain and fury motivated her onward, past all the openly curious stares. She awkwardly mounted the stairs, and stumbled along her hallway, palming the wall, and using doorframes for support. After entering her room, she slammed the door as a final statement and flopped onto her bed, focusing on her throbbing knee.

Despite herself, she slid her glare to the nightstand where, unfortunately, the ring still awaited her.

It complicated matters for her even more.

Logan groaned and stared into her ceiling, eyes burning as they began to well with hot tears. They fell from the corners, running into the temples of her hair when she blinked. Her throat was tight, that perpetual knot taking hold. Between emotional pain and physical, Logan preferred the latter.

A soft knock on the door hardened her glare.

"No," she barked tersely.

It opened anyway, to reveal her father.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked, a concerned, tentative expression on his face.

Logan frowned bitterly, gruffly responding,"No."

Ignoring her answer, he stepped in and closed the door quietly before seating himself along the edge of her bed; the coiled springs beneath her squeaked under the additional weight.

A deafening silence would have fallen between them, had there not been a rupture of laughter floating up from the ground floor.

"I owe you a massive apology," he finally began, his rugged appearance markedly softing. From the corner of her eye, Logan saw how Caldron sat, his back hunched over with guilt. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"First, tell me why you were gone for so long."

"Work," he replied softly, hoping to avoid the brunt of Logan's righteous anger. As his devastatingly pretty girl, his only child, Caldron couldn't stop himself from spoiling her when she was very young; unfortunately, his parenting choices frequently put him at odds with Jennifer, paving the way for future problems. When ignited, Logan's temper was her only fault; Caldron was puzzled as to why her temper had recently taken on a hair-trigger quality. "You know this."

"So what about the years before? You had the same employer, did you not? What made the following years so different?"

Caldron sighed. "Those initial years I spent doing remedial training. I shot a civilian during a raid. My performance was under heavy scrutiny. After that, my team got captured during a patrol―turned out to be an ambush. In fact," he chuckled. "A Ranger team came in and got us out; one of which is downstairs right now."

Logan didnt' care to inquire just _whom_ he spoke of and continued to stare unblinking at the ceiling, soaking in and processing the flux of information.

"While I was there," he cleared his throat, "they did just about everything to me. Nothing I couldn't handle, of course. But they threatened to find you and your mom. I couldn't allow that to happen."

"So you just dropped off the face of the earth," she remarked disdainfully.

"Yes, I did―to protect you."

Logan drew in a deep, measured breath through her nose. "What about John? I want to know everything. I can't ask him." she bitterly spat, "His word count doesn't exceed fifteen words an hour."

A long beat passed.

He went onto explain their meeting between regiments during a work up many years back.

From beneath her eyelashes, she studied her father's profile in the grim light. He sat facing away from her, staring at the long ago locked in his mind's eye, recalling every memory of those early days, of a younger version of himself and John Wick, with concise detail.

"He killed the men that beat your mother, and brought my stuff back. **_He killed them all._** I can't imagine how he did it; he just did, and that's what's unique 'n steady 'bout him. He's focused and determined. Incredible will power, that cuss has; John gets it done― _whatever it is_."

"I continued to work with Blackwater, and we had a few men running guns through New York City. My team got involved, 'cause the target had been on our list for sometime; I caught wind about John Wick from several witnesses we interviewed trying to track the target down. I never saw him; didn't have to. Wherever he went, there was a wake of death and shattered families. He once went into a nightclub and shot the whole place up without killing _one_ civilian―which is more'n I can say. He was after some crime lord's kid, wasn't our problem."

Caldron did not blink; his eyes were unfocused, fixated; Logan couldn't see what her father saw; a mental veil was placed, vividly replaying before his mind's eyes all the terrible scenes discovered . . . the defining moment when contingency plans were made, the crucial actions executed, and the binding words uttered―both by Caldron, and his old friend, Wick. All the significant events woven together were coming to a terrible, full circle―like the barrel of a gun.

"Though, it helped. A few men I knew were caught by the balls with the Russian mafia. Once he died, their deeds were forgotten. I was stateside when John called me."

He leveled his gaze onto his daughter, pinning her with the weight of his stare as his retelling took a dark, revealing turn.

"I hadn't heard from him in twenty-six years. I heard about him, but of course, I didn't think it was true. But it was―all of it. John has a very," he struggled to find the word, "... _unique_ past. He was good at what he did, too good in fact. But his kind turned on him―threw him to the wolves and placed a hefty price tag for his life."

Logan lifted up, trying to understand. "How much is he worth?"

"Does the number make a difference?"

"Not really," she admitted softly, ashamed she'd asked, "I know he's your friend but…," she had to know why Caldron chose the route that he did despite how cruel it sounded. "Why didn't you just kill him yourself?"

"Because," Caldron said simply. "You're _alive_ because of him. Fourteen million is not enough to forget what he did for my family, for you and your mother. I can't put a price on y'alls life. I owe him, Logan. I won't let those greedy bastards come after him because he honored a blood oath he couldn't refuse. He was tryin' to leave the underground, desperately at that. Now I need you to kick it into gear, Logan. It's time to repay this debt. Stop this petty bullshit you've been throwin' around. I raised you better than that. Things are about to get _very_ ugly, _very_ fast."

Logan considered snarling a response. Already physically beaten, she didn't need him adding insult to injury. Instead, she fell back against the bed and threw a forearm over her eyes, groaning in exasperation.

Shaking his head, Caldon blanched when he noticed the silver ring on Logan's nightstand, glad he was already sitting down. He began to sweat, feeling the moisture appear on the crown of his bald head, his face growing warm.

 _Best get this over with._

He took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty hands upon his pant legs and plunged ahead, struggling to keep his voice from cracking, to speak calmly and in measured tones.

"Uh―ahaha" he chuckled nervously. "Kennedy and all them guys down there . . . I told 'em you and John are _engaged_."

* * *

 **sheee-it**


	17. Chapter 17

**Your Delusional Fantasies took the liberty in creating not one, but TWO, amazing cover arts for Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat. I can't decide which one I like more so I'll be swapping between the two!**

 **This chapter is also over 5.7k.**

* * *

 **xxx**

* * *

Kennedy rolled up a clean, white sleeve, revealing a burly forearm carved with intricate tattoos. His hands were heavily scarred; most blemishes claimed his knuckles, suggesting the man had a penchant for fighting―or punching through windows.

"How do you feel 'bout an ' _old fashion'?_ " he asked John as he rolled up his second sleeve. A decanter filled with bourbon, several glasses along the kitchen counter and, an orange sat before him.

"I prefer neat or on the rocks," said John.

"Ah, _welp_!" Kennedy shrugged, "We're all mad men here. Lemme make you an _old_ _fashion_!"

John sat down as Kennedy went to work. He silently observed the heavily tattooed man add sugar, bitters, and a splash of water, and then carve a small curl of orange rind; dropping it into the mixture, he then added the bourbon before stirring the ingredients carefully. Slipping an orange wedge into the amber liquid, he slid the glass towards John and picked up his own.

Kennedy extended his arm, _tinked_ it against John's glass and took a swig.

John took a drink as well.

 _Tasty and strong, but not as good as Addy's._

"So . . . allow me to tell you a _l'il somethin', somethin'_ 'bout these folks here," Kennedy pulled up a stool and plopped down atop it, gesturing with scarred finger at the men he brought to John's attention. "We've got ourselves a little bit of _everythang_ ; got us here some Army Rangers, _Texas_ Rangers, a couple o' SEALs . . . oh, and we got another gentleman who did some SAS trainin' in the UK. There's some Raiders outside, Caldron's buddies I like to go hunting with. And my buddy Nick's taken some interest in this recent development; he's a Green Beret."

Leaning against the counter, Kennedy propped an elbow up while the other arm rested with his drink. He began listing the names and professions from one end of the room to the other.

"That's my boy, Ayrie, that big guy with the long hair and beard. He was Watchdog leader for 2nd Battalion Ranger team up in Washington state; Texas boy, don't get confused now." The aforementioned was standing by the back patio door, a beer in one hand while he drew an elaborate story with the other.

Kennedy moved his attention over to several men grouped in the living room. Some were sitting, other were standing.

"The guy in the middle with the white cowboy hat, name's Morgan. He worked with Caldron; in fact, he was there when you kicked Caldron's ass. He's a Texas Ranger now. The one on the left is a _SEAL_ , named McKinley. He's got eyes like an eagle and can shoot a man between the brows, three zip codes over before breakfast on Easter Sunday. The other man is just weird and name's Adam; he's from Austin―that there's the problem, they're all weird. He runs a shop designing tactical gear. Whatever you want, he'll get it for ya. We got eyes _and_ ears all over the place, in _all_ directions. If _anyone_ so much as farts your name, we'll _know_."

"And then, there's ... _me_ ," Kennedy sighed. With a twinkle in his eyes, he gestured to himself almost reverently. "I'm just here for the fun and free booze."

He clapped John against the shoulder, giving him a firm, assuring squeeze. "I gotta say, I was _convinced_ Logan had gone lesbo. I'd ask ya to tell me the story of y'all's meetin' and how you popped the question, but I ain't drunk enough just yet!"

Cackling, Kennedy raised his glass to John in a salute and took a long swig of his bourbon, before sliding off his stool and meandering around the island towards the man named Ayrie.

John was left in the kitchen to stare into his _old fashion_ and his barren ring finger.

* * *

"Stop." Logan abruptly raised a hand, palm up, preventing Caldron from continuing. She dropped her horrified gaze to the floor, refusing to allow his audacious words to sink further into her mind or toy with her emotions.

Unfortunately, it made absolute sense to claim a recent addition to the Ryder family was in dire need of extreme help. What bothered Logan, was how insulting Caldron was with his statement, and the...emotional turmoil Logan was inadvertently subjected to on behalf of Wick's cause. Though she wished otherwise, she was developing a highly abhorred, yet powerful attraction to John.

But in the end, _she was not some bargaining tool._

"I have much to say," she closed her eyes calmly, taking in measured breaths to prevent herself from hurling obscenities. "But I wished I hadn't known that."

Was that all she was to him? That she possessed no inherent value of her own and was chattel, merely a commodity to exchange, like livestock―as if John were some prized bull and she a breeding heifer.

Moreover, the sudden, unsettlingly large influx of people in her _once_ private home was difficult enough to adjust to. To follow suit, her father just revealed how he volun _told_ his spinster daughter to tie up the loose ends to expedite the process! What happened to her quiet, solitary world? Where was the morning she woke alone? Ate alone? Breathed alone?

Now she was beginning to see her part in the entire operation and she despised it. Truly, she was no more than mere cattle; a sacrificial lamb to be offered on the proverbial altar of Wick's life. Did John view her the same way?

Unable to bear the sight of her father any longer, much less be in the same room with him, Logan scooted towards the edge of her bed, warily maneuvering onto her feet. Caldron stood, ready to assist her, but hastily withdrew and sat back down, when Logan angrily swatted him away.

"Just go, Dad," Logan's cutting tone warned Caldron away as she limped and hopped towards the bathroom, firmly gripping the doorframe as soon as she could, unaware of the paternal pride beaming from Caldron's face, as he watched her slow, but determined progress. Fierce as a lioness when her temper was roused, all the bald man saw before him, was his once-upon-a-time kitten.

Logan's ears felt hot as the pain surged through her, grating against her taut nerves and feeding her roiling anger. She hopped forward once more, slamming the door behind her after flicking the light on.

In her bedroom, the groan of relieved springs came prior to her bedroom door closing. Heavy footsteps faded away, leaving her to think in solitude.

It took Logan half an hour to gather clothes and a fresh towel, and another half hour to select and pour some bubbles while the tub filled, undress herself, then remove the old bandages. Producing her own first aid supply from beneath the sink, she tossed the items carelessly across the counter for later use.

Now hovering over the piping hot water, very carefully, Logan gripped the edges of the tub as she slowly lowered herself into its heated, foamy topped depths. The sultry heat melded with her wounds, biting into her flesh and sending chills up and down her arms. The displaced bathwater came up to her shoulders, ripples lapping at her chest as she settled in. Tilting her head back to rest again the rim, Logan winced as she straightened out her legs and wiggled her toes within the balmy depths.

Gradually, she relaxed. Steam rose from its its thin, scented veil drifting languidly to obscure the mirrors and fill the air with fragrant, pleasantly warm thickness. Her face and skin flushed pink as the heat spread throughout.

Closing her eyes, Logan immediately saw the jarring image of _that damn wedding ring._ She snapped them open, warding off the dreaded sight as she glared at the soft vapor blurred lights overhead. Nerves pitched within her belly as she resisted the urge to wonder what circumstances caused John to change his mind. And why so suddenly? Perhaps he knew their time together was limited. And being the only female in the residence, had something to say about his urges.

 _Or,_ her mind placated, _feelings could be reaching a mutual understanding._

 _Probably not,_ she snorted derisively.

 _But there's always the possibility...?_

Logan shook her head, silencing the internal conflict.

Complicating matters further was her father's impeccable timing with his outrageous, cock-n-bull story of a romance―an _engagement_ , no less, between John and Logan― _just_ as John removed his ring. Logan didn't know if she should laugh, cry, or flee from the mocking cruelty.

 _But what if…?_ Logan deliberated.

Dumbstruck, the mystery unfurled like a hard slap across the face; _they were working in tandem._ The timing was not coincidental but rather _intentional_. Caldron must have told John the only way to gather sympathy would be to tether him to something, someone they could relate to, which was _Logan_.

Before the hillbilly exodus, it was just Kennedy; another prominent public figure with a death toll and a stint for knife play. The man was crazy, but in a _'salt of the earth'_ kind of way. If that was in possible. He owned a gun shop, packed his own bullets, and _knew people who knew people who knew_ Caldron.

That would explain her father's weird behavior after the crash; _the faux-engagement_ was his secret, Kennedy being the first to know. Caldron suspected Kennedy would open his mouth. But why did he not want John to hear it?

Many of the men gathered below had watched Logan grow from an unruly child to― _let's face it_ ―an unruly adult. They mussed her hair and threw her onto their shoulders on many occasions. They also brought her sweets when visiting their once happy family. When her parents enjoyed a date night, she had sleepovers with their children. When Caldron was out of town on business, they kept watch over her and her mother.

That's why they kept her around. Not because she could shoot; _not really._ Not because she could fight; _barely_.

In short, they were using her, both Caldron, John, and probably now Kennedy. Everyone else she witnessed were just as much fools as she.

Angry, Logan could hear him now.

 _"Oh, my poor, little girl! She's finally found someone to love and his past won't let him go! Please, please―help us!"_

Rolling her eyes, she groaned.

"Boo. Hoo. Hoo." she muttered bitterly, filling the spite rise and fester.

Just how much was divulged? What did and didn't reach their ears? For certain, the men below weren't aware of the bounty placed on John Wick's life. If they did, at least _one_ of them would turn against them. Logan thought about the first night she met John. She wanted him dead; how easily Caldron and Logan could have tied the loose ends, and returned as a family. It was all she ever wanted; her father back in her life, maybe even her mother.

With bitter remorse, she knew better. Caldron had come home to help _John_ and in doing so, introduced Logan into the mix as some incentive. With her at John's side, it mitigated enough suspicion while breaking open the bottom of their hearts and left it swinging on old hinges.

Logan took a deep breath and slid beneath the water's surface until the bubbles swallowed her up.

* * *

Abram Tarasov, brother to the late Viggo Tarasov and uncle to the also deceased Iosef Tarasov, sat in his second floor office above his chop shop.

Down below, the remnants of his men worked to restore order from the chaos and destruction John Wick unleashed when reclaiming his car. They were several days in, and there was still much to accomplish.

Abram had not slept well since.

He could still hear the staccato report of gunfire … tires squealing, his men shouting and screaming in pain as John Wick delivered their irrevocable end.

He had waited, forcing himself to embrace the sounds of unadulterated obliteration like hot iron held to flesh. There wasn't much else he could do. He was powerless, the _younger brother_ of Viggo Tarasov.

And just as suddenly and savagely as John arrived―killing everyone who dared to intervene, destroying everything in his path, the awful cacophony stopped.

Then steps ascended to the second floor.

Each clipped footfall ricocheted against Abram's straining ears, startling him, echoing through him in tandem with their sharp report.

 _Death was now closing in on him…_

His frenetic heart clawed into his throat as dark fears manifested in his mind.

He thought of the ways he would die.

Strangulation?

Bludgeoning?

Would John Wick maim him with a _fuckin' pencil?_

Would it be quick and merciful?

Or would John draw out Abram's life, extending the torture, riddling his body with unfathomable agony?

He'd heard so much of the _Baba Yaga,_ like a folk lore told to naughty children to usher them to bed. Unfortunately, it was the minds of _grown men and women_ those haunting words reached.

Fortunately, Abram did not meet his end that day.

John had spared him, graciously bestowing upon Abram, _a parting gesture of peace._

He thought of John as the surreal silence between the moment a spoon irrevocable detaches from a live grenade, that suspended moment of tranquility before succumbing to fatal and deafening explosion; _that_ was **John Wick**.

The _Baba Yaga's_ known _modus operandus_ : killing and sleeping. A man could only pray to find Wick in the latter.

Awash with relief was Abram Tarasov on that day Wick turned away from him, strolling back out to merge again with the shadows. An extension of palpable darkness; the _Baba Yaga._

Displayed upon Abram's cell phone was a text message he had read far too often, and would read many more times again.

 _Fourteen million for John Wick_ ―and then!― _excommunicado_ from all avenues of the underground.

The malicious syndicate that ruled Wick and Tarasov's world, had turned upon and exiled the one man who knew _al_ l the rules and played the game _extremely well._

 _What happens to the Alpha wolf when he is driven from the pack?_ Tarasov wondered.

It deeply unsettled the Russian, knowing Wick was ignominiously stripped of all privileges and abandoned to his cruel fate. Someone as calculating as Wick could not be hunted, tamed, or scorned.

 _And for only fourteen million?_

You could not stab the Devil in the back without suffering severe repercussions.

Abram scoffed derisively, tapping the phone's screen with the tip of his finger; it illuminated, and the text displayed again.

 _It wasn't enough_ ―not for **John Wick**. Abram himself wouldn't flick the Boogeyman in the throat for less than twenty million, but to kill him? The amount of money to convince him of such a task was enough to build a grand chateau on the Moon.

Again, he reflected upon the telling moment the _Baba Yaga_ drew back the doors to Abram's office, and stepped in, ready to spill more Tarasov blood.

John would **kill** , and **kill** , and **kill** ; this much Abram knew.

He had savagely demonstrated this countless times before. Eventually, people came to realize the horrible, unimaginable things they heard about the _Baba Yaga_ were, in fact, true.

In the end, Abram should've just surrendered the car. He hadn't, for his brother and nephew had been extinguished and he wanted to make a statement, to hold the car as a reminder. However, he was nothing like Viggo or John; he was just an owner of a chop shop, wiping VIN numbers, papers and swapping plates. What did he know about such things as blood money? Sure, he had his fair share of interrogations and the occasional run in with opposing forces, which he handled graciously; no more, no less.

The cell phone screen dimmed again.

Abram sighed, worried as the prospects began to take hold. The underworld could turn on _him_ , if he wasn't careful and discreet. But there had to be _someone_ with the right answers to his absurd inquiries.

He was reflective.

 _Can a man like you know peace?_

 **Why not?**

"John Wick," his Russian accent rasped, "Let's see what I can do."

He picked up his cell phone and skimmed through his contacts. Abram stopped at the tail end of the C's, his thumb hovered over the words

 _Continental Hotel._

* * *

John, only very _slightly_ inebriated after consuming far too many _'old fashions_ ', faltered at the head of the stairs. His pup zoomed past him, disappearing into the bedroom where he leaped onto the bed, ready to call it a night.

Holding firmly onto the banister, John turned his head and listened; the number of men on the ground floor had dwindled to only Kennedy and Caldron, who assured John they would lock up on their way out. Caldron and Kennedy had assembled a remarkable group of friends willing to help the _Baba Yaga,_ largely in deference to Logan ... _his fiancée._

To his credit, John did not blink when Kennedy drunkenly whispered to John,

 _"Now, Logan's a bit rough on the edges, you can blame her daddy for that. But once you get past her prickly demeanor, she's a real charm. 'Specially with those eyes. Thank God she got everything else but them eyes from her mama. Now I love her, but Jen's one of them high maintenance girls that'll drive you to an early grave. I reckon Caldron likes them fancy. Don't worry, Logan ain't too fancy."_

Kennedy took another gulp, polishing off his drink. Without hesitation, he made himself and John another old fashion.

 _"Shew! I was so sure she was gonna start swinging the other way."_

Clapping John on the back, Kennedy fixed John with a playful wink and grin before he pinched his fingers between his lips and let out a loud, piercing whistle. The room swiftly quieted as the gathering turned their attention to Kennedy. The ones outside huddled in the patio doorway.

 _"I wanna thank y'all again for coming out tonight. As you can see there's a lot of land to be covered but most importantly, the reasons for why we're here to begin with; the Ryders need our help - especially Logan. Our little girl ain't so little anymore." The men murmured amongst themselves, nodding and looking at John with open concern in their eyes. Undeterred, Kennedy stifled a belch and laid a brawny arm atop John's shoulder, pulling him close as he raised his other hand for silence. In a booming voice that carried to the men standing outside, he waved his hand at the crowd before them and assured John,_

 _"Son, don't you worry none. My boys are gonna set it all straight_ ― _the Texas way."_

Raising their drinks high as whistles and hearty claps filled the room, the men toasted to John and drank bottoms up, echoing Kennedy's sentiment and declaration. John forgot to correct Kennedy. Although quiet, he was keen.

As the celebratory spirit continued, the brawny man had insisted on working the room with a stoic Wick in tow. Surprisingly, John was well acquainted with the majority of the men present; as he mingled, he shook hands, holding his own when exchanging many extra firm handshakes and coolly returning a great many friendly, though envious glares as several younger men scrutinized and congratulated him on his and Logan's _engagement._

 _Speaking of Logan…_

Shaking off the slight vertigo, he moved towards her bedroom.

When he entered, he found her bed still neatly made. Crossing to the empty balcony, he verified she was not just beyond his sight, and he looked down at the empty pool, vividly remembering the day he first held Logan in his arms, before Caldron threw her into the water. Turning away from the large, arched windows, his eyes lit upon the closed bathroom and the sliver of light shining beneath it. Pausing, John considered walking away; this was beyond his jurisdiction, but an undeniable part of him demanded he verify her whereabouts.

Drawing in a deep breath to clear his deluded mind, he approached the door. Turning his head, he leaned in close and listened . . . _silence._

Brow furrowing, he rapped lightly with his knuckles against the surface.

 _No response._

He knocked again, more loudly.

 _Still no answer…_

Checking the doorknob, he found it unlocked, and slowly pushed it open.

"Logan?" he called. Her clothes were piled neatly on the floor and the tub was filled with bubbles and water, but she was nowhere to be found. "Logan?"

He quietly moved towards the tub. The water was still, the bubbles dissolving.

Then he saw her.

The alcohol haze disappeared instantly as panic flooded him; John surged forward, his hands plunging into the warm depths, grabbing the fully submerged woman firmly by the shoulders. He hauled her up, ready to perform CPR, and was both surprised and thankful to discover she wasn't limp and lifeless in his grasp. Instead, she yelped and flailed, startled―until she saw it was John.

She clutched his strong forearms, the suds from her hands sliding over her knuckles, as she stared up at him, transfixed by the naked emotion openly displayed upon his face. She had never seen him look so . . . _disheveled._

 _She wasn't trying to drown herself…?_

"John!?" she gasped, startled. " _What are you doing ...?_ "

Blinking, John was transfixed. Water beaded her thick lashes, clinging to their length and accentuating her slate gray eyes. The refracted light from the watery surface danced over her features, weaving and glimmering between and along her freckles.

He blinked, drawing a blank, thankful to be proven wrong―for once. His sleeves were now soaked, a delicate fragrance wafted up from the bubbles.

He furrowed his brow in thought. Concern and confusion coalescing as John considered a reasonable response; he went with the truth.

"I thought you were trying to drown yourself." he eased his grip along her shoulders and she sank back down into the water. The contents sloshing, bringing the mountains of bubbles to and fro.

Her gaze wavered between a scowl and thwarted humour. A smile hovered upon her lips and she bit down, turning her head and hemming. As if she realized something, the smile vanished and a cold expression took its place. She hadn't heard his call, or any of his knocks because she was underwater.

"No, John," she softly assured him, staring at the foamy surface. "I was just taking a bath."

Logan sank deeper into the water, feeling vulnerable in his commanding presence. She lowered herself until the water leveled beneath her nose while she peered up at him. The water rippled against the backdrop of dark hair drifting weightless about her shoulders. The bubbles shielding Logan's chest and nether regions from John's sharp gaze only increased her sense of vulnerability; the bubbles wouldn't last for ever.

As his eyes roamed the length of the tub, John found he could not and did not want to look away; nor could he prevent his body from powerfully responding to the tantalizing site Logan presented . . . not this time.

John sat back onto the white tile, exhaling sharply with embarrassment.

"I see that."

Aside from humility, John also felt a distinct and unmistakable sense of relief―which was peculiar, because it was directed towards Logan's well being. He was relieved...why? Because she wasn't attempting suicide?

 _What if she was?_

John wondered at his reaction, how his chest tightened as he got to his feet.

Across the counter, John found clean gauze, iodine, bandages and other medical supplies. He picked up a roll of ace wrap, gesturing if she _wanted_ any help. She didn't _need_ anything from John.

Logan didn't answer right away, but eventually, she nodded. John grabbed a folded towel from the counter, spreading it as Logan pulled herself up, he stared into the wall on his left.

The towel was ripped from his grasp as she wrapped it around herself.

When he looked back, he blinked and dropped his gaze.

Logan's skin was flushed, the scented bubbles clung to her toned shoulders, glistening on her collar bones. There was a pressure in his chest; the effects of his lowered inhibitions, surely…

A heavy war drum **boomed** , **boomed** , **boomed** in his rib cage.

Thanks to the adrenaline rush from his mistaken situational assessment, his mind had mostly freed itself from the drink induced stupor. John reminded himself to turn down any drinks Kennedy touched. The man had a heavy hand when pouring. The polluted stated provided details where they shouldn't be.

"Help me," Logan muttered, standing still in the tub.

 _What for?_ Then he quickly realized, _her knee_ _._

John looked around, assessing the situation as best as he could―considering his...convoluted state.

"Just…," Logan huffed impatiently. "Grab me."

So he did.

Stepping closer, John wrapped his arms around her lower waist, smelling her fragrant skin still warm from the water, and lifted her.

She draped her arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly as he turned and carefully settled her atop the bathroom counter.

 _They were so close…_

 **Boom,** **boom, boom...**

John faltered, palming the counter's surface on either side of her hips. Surely it's the intoxicating effects from the alcohol, but John was no stranger to bourbon's kiss. His mind wandered.

She smelled good, she felt good and the ever present guilt did not manifest as he expected...as he hoped.

Logan watched. Her heart quickened, sensing and feeling the change in him; normally, he'd quickly distance himself from her, but he remained. She stilled at his close proximity, sharing her personal space. With her back to the mirror, she was unable to see John's expression as he leaned closer. An internal, unseen, struggle ensuing within.

John lifted his eyes, studying his reflection. His hair, his eyes, his face belonged to a man returning to himself from a self-imposed exile to a bleak, emotional wasteland. A dark feral look filled his eyes and an insatiable hunger took hold of him.

 _How much time had passed since he'd been with a woman?_

Helen's illness… as it progressed, her health and strength steadily declined.

 _He couldn't..._

"John . . . ?" Logan's voice was weak and breathless, caressing his ear and pulling him aware from those dark thoughts.

Carefully, John turned his head, coming to meet and hold her stare. Her breath turned shallow as he lowered his gaze, counting the freckles that sprinkled her nose, thinning out as they stretched over her pale cheeks, then lower…

The tip of her nose, the curve of her lips. John was forgetting to breathe as he descended, unable to break away. Her knuckles were white, gripping the folds of her towel in rigid anticipation.

 _Lower…_

Past the towel, he came to her powerful thighs he once felt constrict around him, squeezing the air from his lungs and forcing his heart to work harder.

A wild need consumed him, blotted his mind, blinded him.

 _Too many 'old fashions' . . ._

John placed a trembling hand, gently, tentatively on her bare thigh, seeking permission. Beneath his touch, she quivered, her skin bristling with chills under the contact.

Emboldened, he slid his palm up, gripping the soft, firm flesh while he ventured further, his hand disappearing beneath the towel. He leveled his gaze, holding her stare, searching her face as his hand continued to explore upwards.

They both stilled.

A beat...

Then Logan moved, leaning forward. John leaned too and their lips collided. Her hands found his face, claiming him, the towel forgotten. The dampened fabric slipped down, exposing her chest to him.

She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him roughly against her mouth, hungrily kissing him. While John's fingers tickled the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, he reached up with his other and palmed her breast gently.

Arching her back, she leaned into his touch, encouraging him wordlessly. _Harder_. John obliged, running the pad of his rough thumb over a pert nipple, enjoying the way it responded to his touch. Blood pounding, roaring through his head to his heart as the life force abandoned his mental faculty to surge... _elsewhere._

Her warm mound filled his entire hand, the softness of her silken skin against his rough fingertips and calloused palm stirred something deep and long forgotten. His body almost responded too fervidly, far more eager and willing than the mind, even at its current state.

Logan was not an ample woman, nor was she overly muscled. Her active lifestyle and choices kept her trim; life kept her limber and flexible, otherwise her knee injury would have been much worse. He enjoyed the weight and feel of her everywhere he touch. How the well proportioned mound, with its pert, high outline filled his large hand. The gentle flare of her hips and tightly rounded bottom indicative of the female anatomy. He'd forgot their curves, their warmth. The fairer of the sexes. The softness she did have, in all the right places, John enjoyed ―as any man would.

Logan turned her head, deepening their kiss while yielding to John's gentle torture. The fingers that tapered closer to her warm center, their tips now brushing the sensitive skin. Her body growing hot the closer he became. The hand tenderly fondling her breast, kneading and tugging the supple skin. Their tongues dancing, lapping, tasting, exploring…

He was drowning in her.

She moaned against his mouth and he tasted the sound.

Logan shifted; moving herself closer to the edge, she spread her legs wider to accommodate him as she pulled him closer.

 _―thunk―_

She smacked her bad knee against a half-opened drawer.

Gasping and wrenching away from him, the pain ricocheted through her leg and obliterated all other thought as her injured limb throbbed sharply once more.

"Fuck!" she cried, squeezing her eyes shut and gnashing her teeth.

John stepped back, alarmed, even though he heard and knew what had happened.

He asked if she was alright in which she replied in another wordless motion, eyes shut tightly, head shaking. Blindly, she felt for the towel, pulling it back up and shielding herself once more.

Their bout of passion was over.

John rifled through the cabinets, searching for painkillers. When he found a bottle, he shook two into his hand and offered them to Logan with a glass of water. Trembling with the intensity of her discomfort, she quickly took them as he tended to her wounds and carefully wrapped her knee with a fresh compression bandage.

As best as he could, without hurting her, John helped her dress and put her to bed. Easing down, Logan pulled her legs beneath the covers and scooted far towards the other side, before she threw a look over her shoulder.

The house was secured. The sensors, monitors and security system remained online, and the indicators were blinking green. John knew Caldron or even Kennedy could be trusted to lock up the doors on their way out. He turned away, leaving.

"Good night." His hand hovered over the light switch. Logan still eyed him from over her shoulder.

Reaching back, she pulled at the bedding, patting the sheets beneath.

 _Come, come. . ._

John flipped the switch and the room went dark.

The door shut as he peeled away his shirt, tossing it onto the floor as he moved. His pants quickly followed, until he was down to his boxers.

 _It's the bourbon_ , but the mind and the heart had their way of knowing better.

John carefully eased into Logan's bed and pulled the blankets over himself. She waited until he was comfortably settled, before she reached out and took his hand. Their fingers interlaced and he closed his eyes.

You still need someone, something to love...

 _So start with this . . ._

* * *

 **Quick sidenote; a grenade does come with a pin _and_ a spoon. My earlier reference, the pin was not mentioned, but understand, it must be removed in order for the spoon to detach. I didn't want to congest that paragraph with too many details and I know Holly is going to yell at me, but I'm sORRY!**

 **Holly, I will not every be able to thank you enough. Truly. You're my BFFF, even when you scold me for using military jargon or what you consider 'gun fu.'**

 **Sylarfan: Oh no! I tried keeping that from happening by submitting two chapters, but we're working up to some stuff; I promise! Hopefully this steamy chapter can alleviate it?**

 **Brausepanther: Whoa, indeed.**

 **Your Delusional Fantasies: YAS, HELLO! Thank you for the artwork! UGH, it makes me sO HAPPY**

 **jayjay0815: It did it again! But also, I laughed so hard when I read your review! *laughs in hidden***

 **Mo Eazy: I checked it out, found some other errors while doing so (thank you!), but the last portion between Caldron and Logan isn't missing anything. The sentence might look odd, but there's a reason; he's struggling to find the words. I'm also very happy you mentioned Stormare! I love him as well. He has this sort of flippant, maniacal twitch to his mannerisms. I see it a lot in his work like Constantine and the most recent horror game he portrayed in, _Until Dawn_.**

 **Suzzie: I'm sorry! I probably did it again, too! Don't worry, I'm up late writing it.**

 **I'm posting this chapter early because Friday I have a concert to attend and this weekend, I have drill. I'll be too busy to submit anything.**

 **Thank you all for reading/reviewing, and have a good weekend!**


	18. Chapter 18

Abram Tarasov sat in the passenger seat of a dark, evergreen 1973 Ford Gran Torino, glancing at his gold Rolex. A quiet storm had drifted past the city. Now the streets were slick in rain and resurfaced oil, refracting the spectrum of colors across their inky surfaces beneath the city lights.

The time read a quarter past two a.m., but Abram was not tired, _no_. He was far too anxious to be tired.

However, as the younger brother of the feared Viggo Tarasov, Abram liked to think he had _some_ sway in certain . . . matters. If not, addressing the kingpin of the Continental would certainly clear that up.

"Alright," he rasped, reaching for the door handle. He knew his life was not endangered upon the hotel's premises; nonetheless, it did not prevent a deep sense of unease and uncertainty from stirring within him, to be inside a building teeming with ruthless killers.

Upon entering the Continental, Abram gave himself a moment to admire its impressive, tasteful decor, to soak in its uniquely exclusive ambiance. Though not his first time to visit the New York underworld's famed and hallowed assassins' sanctuary, Abram was not immune to its charms, and found its worldly ambience pleasant.

Dressed in a charcoal gray suit, his canary yellow tie stood out against an even darker button up. His Italian dress shoes clipped against the marble floor as Abram approached the front desk where Charon politely awaited him.

"Good evening, Mr. Tarasov," the concierge greeted, tilting his dark-skinned chin as he curiously regarded the man. "I do not have you listed as a guest. How may I be of service to you this _fine_ evening?"

Abram smacked his lips in thought, then narrowed his pale eyes curiously, "Is the manager in?"

"The manager is _always_ in."

"May I see him?"

Frankly, Abram wasn't sure how to go about executing his decision. Calling Winston was not as personal as Abram would like. He wanted to _see_ the man, and gauge his response when he informed him of his newly developed endeavors.

"Shall I announce you, Sir?" Charon inquired.

Impatient, the Russian nodded fervently with a terse smile.

"Very well," The Concierge intoned, before picking up the phone; though Abram stood directly before Charon, he could not make out the soft words the man murmured into the phone.

"Of course, Sir." Charon murmured into the phone before he quietly returned the receiver to its cradle. Turning his attention to the man before him, Charon inclined his head slightly, waiting.

The Russian blanched ever so slightly. Reaching into his pocket, he removed two coins, and pondered the images representing peace and violence on one surface, upon the flip side is emblazoned a lion and shield. He muttered softly in Russian beneath his breath, as if his sincere words can infuse the underground's currency with his intentions.

Abram slid the golden coins across the counter towards the Hotel manager. It glinted brightly, winking in the light before disappearing beneath the man's hand.

"Thank you, Sir." Charon stepped away from the desk, towards a cleverly hidden doorway just beyond the end of the counter. At his touch, the door slid away to reveal an elevator. Pulling the wrought iron door aside, the concierge stepped inside and gestured for Abram to join him.

"This way, please."

Once the gate was secured, they steadily descended several floors; the lower they went, the more pronounced a heavy, rhythmic thud became.

 _Music._

He expected the percussions and throbbing bass to shake the door frame, or at least rattle the buttons, but it didn't. Even from the lobby, it couldn't be heard.

A soft and final ding occurred and the door slid away, revealing a dark, bustling interior of the hotel's subterranean speakeasy.

The nightclub was brimming with gyrating bodies, flickering strobe lights, and heavy techno music in sync with the churn that followed it.

Charon gestured for Abram to step inside.

Smirking to himself, Abram thought it a shame to be here on business. He certainly wanted to shuffle his way across the dance floor.

Charon led Abram to Winston, who was seated at the furthest end, well within view of the bar, and the striking, tattooed brunette who tended it. Winston looked up from his ledger; after a moment's beat, the cryptic smile upon the Manager's face caused Abram to feel a shade more anxious and rather outnumbered; this was Winston's domain.

Removing his reading glasses, the kingpin folded the earpieces and gently placed them atop the table.

"Well . . . if it isn't Mr. Abram _Tarasov,_ " Winston spoke first with a chuckle. "Do sit down."

"Thank you." Abram muttered.

Abram flared his coat tails out, lest he sit upon them, before easing himself onto the cushion.

"Thank you." Winston dismissed his manager with a meaningful glance. Charon inclined his head in acknowledgement before disappearing into the writhing crowd.

"Good evening, Winston." Abram replied, auspicious in concealing his nervousness.

Winston took a sip of his drink. Setting it gently down, he laced his fingers together.

Under narrowed eyes, he inquired. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

Abram's tongue felt heavy and dry like wrought iron in his mouth, but he spoke through it.

"I'm looking for John Wick."

Impassive, Winston smiled benignly. "Get in line; many men and women are _looking_ for Mr. Wick."

"No," Abram shook his head, "Not like that. I don't want to kill him."

Winston raised his eyebrows; his gaze, both sharp and skeptical, bored into Abram's eyes, clearly unconvinced of his claims. "You're not the first person to utter those words within the last twenty-four hours, Mr. Tarasov."

"Yes," the younger Tarasov sighed, frustrated at having not thoroughly thought the concept through. "I figured such. But I feel a sense of responsibility. It's _my fault,_ " he further explained. "Well, not _mine_ alone, but the Tarasov name."

"Not entirely," Winston interjected. "There were a great number of subjects responsible."

"John came to my shop to reclaim his car. He―" Abram pursed his lips, pausing for severity, " _slaughtered_ the majority of my men, smashed into my cars, ran over everything."

Winston sagely nodded, unfazed by the declaration. "Yes, that sounds like Jonathan," the kingpin concurred.

"I stayed in my office," Abram continued, "I listened to everything from up there. The chaos and the violence he brought with. And when it stopped, he came to me."

"Indeed," Winston's brow quirked up with mild interest. "I am quite surprised to see you here now."

"So am I!" Abram exclaimed in hushed tones. "Can you believe it? He killed my _brother._ My _nephew_ , and destroyed my shop, but spared _my life._ " He huffed a laugh bordering hysteria.

"Go on," Winston instructed.

Sighing, Abram deliberated.

"I― _hmm_ ―had a moment when he left. He offered me a truce, to end it all like _civilized men,_ and then, he left."

"Congratulations; not many people can say that."

Deliberating further, Abram groomed his graying beard as he mulled over his next words. He met Winston's unwavering gaze and held it.

"I know you favor John; you gave him a grace period―to flee, to get out as fast as he could. You spared him, like he spared me."

Winston narrowed his eyes, familiar with the parlance and the inevitable request.

Abram leaned in, the lamplight overhead throwing his face in harsh relief against the shadows of the booth, illuminating his bright blue eyes.

"Help me find **John Wick.** "

* * *

Hidden amidst the dense corn stalks, Kennedy maintained a low-profile. Tucked into his cheek was a butterscotch hard candy, which he idly tongued from one side of his mouth to the other.

As a car drove by he brought his head down, covering the outer scope's lens with his hand. The car continued on passed the dug out; the same dark colored El Camino that'd driven by a few times before.

Somewhere, also heavily camouflaged, were two cohorts unseen among the tall stalks.

They were ghosts, much like Kennedy, hiding beneath the warm nightfall.

Kennedy reflected fondly at what led him here. He was always willing to get a little rough and wild.

Several days earlier, while admiring Wick's Mustang, John claimed a good friend of his recently restored the vehicle and then personally delivered it himself. He also mentioned the man, named Aurelio, covered his tracks before making the trip.

" _We shouldn't have anything to worry about."_ John had assured.

Trust but verify, Ronald Reagan always said.

To put Kennedy's own mind at ease, and taking the opportunity to see Wick's car up close and personal, he inspected the vehicle from front bumper to exhaust pipes. He checked beneath the seats, pulled panels free and inspected their compartments. He even looked behind glass surfaces and between the wheel wells.

Of course, with no surprise, his efforts were handsomely rewarded.

Just as he inspected the undercarriage, he discovered a questionable, bulky item fashioned around its drive shaft, which he had cut free and examined. With his legs sticking out from beneath the car, Kennedy peeled apart the wadded layers of stubborn tape to reveal a _burner phone_. A cheap flip phone with enough fortitude and battery life to live through a nuclear war. Aurelio had completely missed it.

After, he alerted John and Caldron, he checked the devices information, but no contacts were found. Not even exchanged text messages.

John took the device and headed west in a last ditch attempt to prolong the inevitable. He'd left the cell phone in an empty silo at the furthest outskirts of town, in an effort to bide some time to formulate an action plan. They wondered if his gambit would really work, if the GPS would lure anyone this far, and more importantly—if their ruse was believable. Kennedy reckoned not. If he were walking up with two dollar signs for eyeballs, even he would see the silo as a trap. Whether the hunters were clever or not depended on their actions, and how fast Kennedy could to take them down.

Kennedy, McKinley and Ayrie followed John's directions, which led them to the derelict silo nearly an hour westward. A stretch of road lost to farmland and postal codes.

After the sunset, in time Kennedy realized John's predictions were correct; like a beacon, people were unerringly drawn to the device's location.

 _Well,_ not _people_ , just one vehicle so far.

Once more, the car turned around, coming to a slow crawl as they surveilled the empty silo for the fourth time.

They were scouting the place out, Kennedy knew. Lifting his head, he looked out into the shadowy stalks for any indication of Ayrie or McKinley. He found nothing; they were well concealed from the headlights.

He shifted to a more comfortable stance in his prone position, legs splayed, feet flat. Both elbows propped while he rested his chin against Caldron's new Armalite's stock. Fortunately, he didn't have to beg Caldron to use it; the man insisted.

Headlights washed over his unseen position before they went out. The car rolled quietly into the pullout, parking three hundred yards away from the silo. A good sprinting distance―if they could outrun a .300 Winchester Magnum at 1,500 yards.

He lowered his head, flipping down the NODs, the night-vision optic device strapped to his head into place, before eyeing his targets through the scope. The night turned brilliant green.

Killing the engine, two dark-clad men got out. Exchanging quiet words, they moved forward.

Kennedy watched their hands disappear into the folds of their clothing, producing―what could only be―weapons.

Using hand signals, they quietly migrated closer.

He followed them in his sights, waiting for them to draw open the silo door and reveal its empty contents.

Parting, one man took to the right, the other left. Kennedy could even see them counting before they threw it open. The darkness yawned before them but something must have startled them, because both started firing at once.

Gun flashes erupted, the sound of their tandem _pop, pop, pop!_ firing filled the empty farm land.

Through the tall corn stalks from the left, a hulking shadow emerged; Ayrie and in tandem was McKinley coming in for the take down. Both men sported armored chest plates; Ayrie's Ranger green assembly proudly displayed a Texas patch, and McKinley wore his coyote tan plate carrier with a patch saying, _'We do bad things to bad people.'_

Albeit, Kennedy, more daring than his companions, wore only his ghillie suit and a chest rig for storing extra ammo, magazines and candy. And some undies, but no kevlar.

Maintaining his sights as the men sprang back outside, realizing it was a ruse, Kennedy should have taken the shot, but he didn't. In a matter of seconds, he realized they were more useful alive than dead. Perhaps they could tell them how they found their way to Texas. Better yet, how many more where trailing behind?

Ayrie caught and placed the man on the left in a debilitating rear-choke hold. McKinley closed in, striking the second man with quick pistol whip from the right. The man's head bucked back before dropping like dead weight. Meanwhile Ayrie bumped along the outer walls of the silo as the first assailant fought against him.

It was useless; the hold was too great and the ten seconds between breaking free or passing out came and went. The man slumped in Ayrie's arms.

Kennedy smiled, lifting his head. He pushed up to his knees; releasing the small magazine and freeing the chambered round, he dropped the bullet into a compartment of his chest rig as he dragged a black duffle bag to his side; swiftly, he disassembled the weapon. Packing it all neatly away, he stood, emerging from the shadowy corn stalks in a complete ghillie suit and protruding NODs. He flipped them up, grinning with the butterscotch disc still stowed in his cheek.

Both men were patted down, their cell phones taken before they are hogtied and tossed into the trunk of their El Camino.

* * *

"I'm afraid I can't." Winston uttered solemnly. "John is nowhere to be found."

Abram scoffed, relieved to finally be able to confide in another.

"I don't believe that."

"It's true," Winston replied, unruffled. "Even if I knew the man's whereabouts, I cannot trust that what you say is true, nor would I reveal his location."

So Abram was right; there was favoritism within the assassins' ranks. Even if Winston knew, which Abram had no doubt he did, the kingpin wouldn't share such information.

"What about his contract? Can you call it off?"

"Unfortunately, no." Winston took another sip of his drink. "The only man who can do that is dead, thanks to your friend―Mr. Wick. You must understand, Mr. Tarasov; John knew what he was doing. He knew the rules and he deliberately broke them. _I had no choice._ "

There was something fleeting in the Manager's shrewd eyes that flickered―something calculating, before the expression became disturbingly cold and indifferent.

Winston lifted a hand, gesturing towards the bartender. "I did enjoy this discussion. You're a brave man, Abram, but like your brother. Would you care for a drink while you're here?"

"No," Abram said curtly, anxiously tapping his fingers against the table's surface. He was deeply disappointed and frustrated his efforts to do right by John Wick ended in vain.

If Winston could not . . . or would not assist him, Abram wasn't sure how to aid the disavowed hitman or if he even could...

"Oh, but I insist." Winston blandly urged, fixing the Russian with an inscrutable expression.

Abram held the Manager's intimidating gaze before conceding, "Sure, I'll have a drink."

The Russian took the opportunity to stand. Winston gestured a parting salute with his drink as Abram turned away.

It was useless coming here. He could have called if that was the only result of his petition. He'd been so worried Winston would have his endeavors misconstrued, or worse, threatening. His nerves were for naught.

Abram Tarasov fervently hoped that somehow, some way―an agreement could be formed between the Tarasov's and Wick.

Slipping his hands into his custom-made pockets, Abram ambled towards the bar where the tattooed brunette stood pouring drinks. Seeing him approach, she awaited him, her lips were painted darkly, either red or black, Abram couldn't tell in such a poor lighting. He opted for red, it was seductive and he pictured himself smothering her with kisses, smearing the crimson against her pale skin.

A wry, knowing smile graced her patrician features in the blue neon lights that traced the bar. When he finally made it to the counter, she leaned towards him and spoke loudly to be heard over the pulsing music.

"What can I get for you?"

He thought for a moment, considering his options; he decided to live dangerously and break away from his customary drink, very much like the reason he was at the Continental.

"A rum and Coke, please."

She turned away and, in short order, brought his drink. Setting the beverage down before him, Abram reached for his wallet. One drink, no more. Then it was high time for him to get home and go to sleep.

"It's on the house," the bartender gave him a flirtatious wink. Abram smiled, unsure and rather too shy to do anything else. Women were far more complex than crime and cold, hard cash.

With the pounding of the music surrounding him, he took a sip, not seeing the last white fragments dissolve into the carbonated bubbles. He sat the glass against the counter and eyed the dance floor over his shoulder.

"What brings you in tonight?" the bartender's delicate tenor drifted over the music.

The Russian glanced back. Was she speaking to him?

 _She was._

After consideration, he replied. "I'm looking for someone." Dropping his gaze onto the neon lights reflecting across the smooth bar, an ice cube slipped free and drifted to the surface of his drink.

"Must be quite the type if you're here." She extended her hand. "Name's Addy."

Abram eyed the gesture before reciprocating the handshake, "Tarasov."

"Tarasov?" She tilted her head with subtle recognition.

He blinked.

"I've heard that name before."

Abram took another swig, "Perhaps."

Who knew what kind of ill-name Viggo made of himself, and thus Abram, therein the Continental Hotel. Abram should have told her his first name and left the Tarasov part out.

Canting his shoulders, he rested an elbow against the bar and brought his eyes back towards the dancers following the melodic tempo.

"Not many men rock a yellow tie," she added. "I like it."

He took stock of his circumstances; Addy was still trying to hold a conversation with him. If Abram wasn't reeling from the slight transgression at finding Wick and if Addy wasn't so painfully beautiful, he wouldn't mind the small talk.

He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes and gave her a nod.

* * *

The early morning light streamed inside. Amidst the quiet dawn spilling into her room, Logan woke to find herself alone. An impression of John's body awaited her side. Rolling over, she pressed her face into the sheets and inhaled deeply, searching for a hint of his stay next to her. A faint fragrance greeted her and she fought to smile.

Outside, a mockingbird repeated its insistent rasps, scolds and trills, unable to decide what reprise to welcome the day with.

Blinking away the sleep, her eyes focused, adjusting to the morning glow. Lifting her head, she eyed the clock on her nightstand, vaguely reading the hour before the polished tungsten ensnared her once again.

John's wedding ring had been left on the nightstand in the exact place she'd found it. Her intentions were to ignore the silver band until its rightful owner came for it.

It appeared he had a different plan for the piece of jewelry.

Reflecting memories unfurled from the previous night and she found it difficult to smile in victory; it felt more like defeat if anything. It seemed her damaged pride wasn't too scorned to have a heated make out session with the _prized bull_ : **John Wick.**

Unfortunately, she tasted the bourbon on his lips and smelled its sharp scent along his breath as it washed over her. Had it any sway in his actions, she didn't think so. There was no sign of a heady, liquor fueled haze that she could detect. Furthermore, John didn't paw at her roughly or cause further harm with carnal need; quite the opposite. Had it not been for Logan injuring herself . . . who knows what that passionate encounter would have led to. Tilting her head as she examined the ring, she realized John had not acted drunk or clumsily . . . always in control of himself. What he did was not out of clouded judgment or lowered inhibitions. So where did that put his wife?

And what could be said about Logan? She'd angered herself with conviction and defiance once her father broke the news, just to throw herself into John's arms the second she could.

Grumbling, she rubbed away the sleep with her knuckles.

Footsteps dropped her hands as she looked towards the door. John's dog flew past the threshold. He jumped, flying through the air and landing onto the bed. His tail wagged with such fervor, it shook the entire bed.

Warily, Logan lifted herself up on her elbows, cautiously pulling her legs from the animal's stocky, restless limbs, just as John entered her bedroom.

Fully dressed with his hair combed back, Logan's stomach plummeted, suddenly quite aware she was still abed, complete with mussed hair. She thought about drawing the covers up and shielding herself. Of course, the eager dog made that impossible as he trampled and pranced around the foot of her bed, attempting to entice her to play with him.

"Kennedy has something for us," John spoke with a cool regard.

Eyeing him quietly as the sleep wore off, she wondered what she should have expected. John was not emotive. What went on in his head only he knew. Logan could only go off what his expression told her, which was perpetually taciturn.

Approaching her, John came to her bedside and helped her stand.

Her leg protested a little, but she found much of the pain had significantly decreased.

"I got it," her morning voice croaked. John stepped away, keeping a watchful eye on her as she moved towards the bathroom door.

When she emerged, together, they made it downstairs, around the banister and towards an empty bedroom she used for storage.

Upon entering, the first thing she saw were two men tied to their chairs with black bags placed over her heads.

Kennedy was directly behind them, fashioning thick curtains across the only window and blotting out the coming dawn. Thick, black tarp was spread across the floor, protecting the wood from what Logan could only imagine. He looked over his shoulder and grinned.

"Well, good mornin'!"

Logan came to a halt, eyeing the scene before her with a furrowed brow. She glanced at John for an explanation, but he gave none.

"Good morning, " she murmured. "What is this?"

"'Member that tracker I found?"

"...Yes."

"Well, it worked. These couple of fellas came by looking for some quick cash." Kennedy kicked the closest man to him in the leg, startling him. "Thought I'd bring them home for good ol' southern hospitality."

Kennedy bent down and plucked up a large worn duffel bag from the floor. The same ones utilized in the armed forces. He tossed it to her and John's feet, the contents spilling open to reveal plies, zipties, a blowtorch, and a folded knife set. Alongside of variety of other tortuous items.

Kennedy propped his hands akimbo and grinned. "Whaddya say?"

* * *

 **Hello, all! I'd like to apologize, of course, for this unforeseen delay. It was completely accidental. I had to move to Austin (of all places...) for a job and now that I'm here, somewhat established with a set schedule, I can continue writing FFA. Thank you for the concerns and inquiries pertaining to the continuation. It's still happening. I haven't given up.**

 **Thank you for the reviews/read! Have a Happy Easter for those celebrating!**


	19. Chapter 19

_Under a blue moon I saw you_  
 _So soon you'll take me_  
 _Up in your arms_  
 _Too late to beg you or cancel it_  
 _Though I know it must be the killing time_  
 _Unwillingly mine_

 _-The Killing Moon, Roman Remains_

* * *

Hours had passed as the sun rose and fell beyond the black horizon.

Head slumped forward, the captive's face was a road map of cuts, bruises, and swollen beyond recognition. Crimson drool drooped thick and long from split lips. The poor man's dark hair wet from perspiration and blood. Though Kennedy imagined the pain unbearable, he still refused to talk. Kennedy _was_ just starting. A dial up in pain was in order. Eventually, he would spill. They always did.

Leaning against the wall, Kennedy grimaced as he scrutinized a bloody pair of pliers. The mouth gag had already been removed. Four molars with bloody tissue clung to their long nerve roots lay scattered on the plastic covered side table. The young man still maintained his silence. Perhaps the blood running to the back of his throat inhibited him to some extent.

"The longer you hold out, the worse it's gonna get." Kennedy chuckled as he sat the tools aside. Shaking his head, he _almost_ felt sorry for the man. All the fingernails on had been removed, but there were always toes next. In truth, Kennedy's favorite part had yet to come: his coveted knife collection.

The door drew open and, just as silently, a shadow slipped in.

The toppled lamp Kennedy fashioned as a spot light glared directly onto his captive while its shadows threw a sinister portrait across John Wick's face.

At the sound, the man glanced up, visibly flinching at the sight alone.

"Oh, God...," he trembled, a bloody lip quivering.

Kennedy cocked his head, eyes narrowing at the evident discovery. _Did John Wick terrify him?_

"I know you." Wick muttered, shutting the door quietly.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the surface, reflecting for a moment. "You're Aurelio's nephew, Desmond _._ "

"Please," Desmond attempted weakly, his desperate plea cracking with palpable fear. "We thought you were _already dead_ , I swear! I never would have come here if I'd known! Please!" He sucked in a deep breath, choking on the blood and spit. "Please, God, don't hurt me!"

John narrowed his dark gaze. A muscle ticked in his jaw while he contemplated. Looking over the battered kid towards Kennedy, he asked, "What's left?"Kennedy shrugged nonchalantly, "Knives. A blow torch? Funny, he hasn't said shit until you came in."

A moment passed. One that could have been quiet if not for Desmond's incoherent blubbering and pathetic pleas.

John glanced down towards a box set aside. He nudged it with his boot and something alive scurried about inside. Kneeling, he yanked the lid free, reached in and produced a large rat. Dangling by its a long, pink, hairless tail, it pawed and squeaked through the open air.

Shocked into silence, Desmond was transfixed on the rodent. An expression of revulsion and rising fear warped across his face, turning his complexion a sick pallor. Eyes wide with panic, he watched its pointed face sniff around anxiously, thrashing against the force that held him. John pulled Desmond's shirt up, exposing his abdomen. He knew where this was going and became wild and desperate, struggling to escape his confines, to pull away from Wick's reach.

"PLEASE!" Desmond shrieked, becoming manic with fear. "I DIDN'T KNOW! I SWEAR! PLEASE! _FUCK!_ IT WAS ALL MARSHALL'S IDEA!"

Carefully, John dropped the rodent inside a metal bucket, then brought the opening against their guest's lower torso. Calmly securing it to the man's stomach, despite his wishes, with duct tape, John ignored the shrill pleas and cries as he picked up a blowtorch.

Undeterred, John straightened, looking down as Desmond hunched forward, pulling and thrashing against his chair.

"Let's try this again," he spoke with a dread calm. "Who's the other kid? And who else knows you're down here?"

Panic reigned as Desmond struggled to breathe, to think, so bargain for his life. Each breath was an effort grating his lungs, coming to brink hyperventilation. John and Kennedy watched quietly as fear consumed the young man's senses.

Desmond previous composure with Kennedy had fallen aside. Beneath the rowdy man driven with greed was still a sobbing young boy. It was something John could not ignore. Aurelio was his friend. And though a large part of John knew killing Desmond could solve a world of problems here and now, he couldn't. For Aurelio, at least.

Picking up the blowtorch, John studied it intently before he twisted the gas tank's nozzle and soft hissing funneled into the hose.

John ignited the end then adjusted the flame.

The dim room filled with an otherworldly glow as the small blue flame hissed.

The air in the man's lungs went out and he squeezed his eyes shut and his body locked up.

"PLEASE!" Desmond screamed until his lungs collapsed. He heaved a breath and sobbed, hanging his head so low it almost rested against the bucket.

"Who else knows, Desmond?" John asked.

Desmond shook his head, still weeping like a child. "I-I don't know! I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry! I swear! I won't tell anyone!"

Slowly and deliberately, he moved the blowtorch around the vessel.

Inside the bowl, the rat's frantic scrabbling went from one end towards the other, and then towards the man's sweating flesh. Within the metal container, the rodent squeaked and scurried, clawing against all surfaces of his containment.

Gritting, his teeth, the man lurched forward in his confining chair, sucking in his abdomen as the rat frantically found purchase of giving flesh. His efforts to preserve his dignity waned the longer John held the flame to this bucket and the more determined the rat became. A distinct, pungent odor filled the air when Desmond soiled himself.

Chuckling, Kennedy wrinkled his nose with distaste, glad the flooring was protected with plastic sheeting.

Outside, over the granite hills, the night could not hear the man scream.

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Tarasov."

Groggily, Abram came to at the rather familiar tenor.

Slowly, he realized he was not in his bed or even in his house, for that matter. As soon as his mind cleared enough to register discomfort and a stagnant aroma of dust and mildew, he knew he'd been drugged.

An acute ache reigned his body having endured an uncomfortable position for hours - hunched forward, and tightly bound, unable to move his limbs. A vertigo clung to his head, swimming his vision as he slowly woke.

Abram's neck and shoulders also ached. His arms were cinched behind him, secured to the backrest of his imprisoning chair, positioned in the middle of a vast areal a warehouse. Zip ties pinched and cut into the soft flesh of his wrists. He tried kicking his legs out and standing, but he found his ankles also trussed securely to the chair. Shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs clouding his mind, he winced and worked his tongue to rid the sour taste from his mouth.

Squinting, his eyes adjusted slowly to his surroundings.

Glaring sunlight penetrated an old, broken warehouse window, and bore directly into his eyes with the harsh intensity of a spotlight. Turning his head, Abram looked in the direction of the voice that woke him.

 _Winston._

"What-," Abram groaned, coughing as his head spun and throbbed painfully. How did he manage to slip a drug into his liquor? The Russian tried to recall the night before, but found the effort drawing blank.

 _Everything but the pretty brunette._

"Where am I?" he croaked through a parched throat.

The opulently dressed man came a relaxed standstill before him.

"Somewhere," he said casually, while re-adjusting the silk scarf draped along his shoulders.

Slowly glancing around, Abram took in the abandoned building that reeked of mildew. Thick dust motes floated by, lit by the morning rays shining through broken window panes. Four men flanked Winston's side, silently awaiting their orders. Their guns, fitted with suppressors, rested at the low-ready.

"Winston," Abram grimaced as his headache swelled, his voice a rough discord. "Why am I here?"

Winston glanced at his henchmen then turned his icy eyes towards the bound Russian. "You _know_ why you're here."

 _No, not really._ Abram thought.

"You're looking for John Wick, are you not?" the kingpin elaborated with a derisive snort.

Blinking, Abram coughed again, unsure how to answer. There was a pain behind his eyes he tried to shake clear, but only succeeded at rattling his throbbing head.

He _was_ looking for John, but why did they drug him and take him here? Was Winston looking for the Baba Yaga, as well? Wasn't Winston's network of cohorts stretching as far and wide as the endless horizon? Once again, Abram was the _younger brother_. A sub-par version of the infamous and revered _Viggo._ If Winston wanted something, Abram was not the man to take it from.

"Why do you care about Mr. Wick?" Abram shot back flatly. "You're the one who threw him to the wolves to begin with."

 _I love Jonathan like a son, and I will do what I must to help him_.

"You know _so little_ , Mr. Tarasov." Winston replied with quiet voice.

With a look, the Manager made a subtle motion of his hand. A hard blow struck Abram's head and caused the chair to rock onto two legs.

Dazed, a ringing filled his ears and small lights blotted his vision. The henchman calmly withdrew to his original position while the chair righted itself onto all four legs.

Abram squeezed his eyes shut, waiting at the paint that sliced through his head. Winston's voice came again.

"What I did was out of _necessity_ , not cruelty or entertainment." He went on, "If I had pardoned him, do you have _any_ idea what level of mutiny would have occurred?"

Staunched, Abram shook his head carefully, glaring into his lap.

" _Sheer and utter madness,_ " Winston intoned. "We live by a code. We have rules that must be followed, whether you're a high-standing man like Wick, or a lowly nuisance like yourself, _Mr. Tarasov_. Without them, we would be savages."

Abram lifted his head, eyeing him. The insult was not lost to his ears, but now it was clear. Winston was either disposing of or deterring any subject bold enough to step into the Continental with intent on finding Wick. Abram knew the rules just as well. Did drugging him on Continental ground constitute as business?

"I'm not trying to kill him, Winston," Abram explained, licking his dry lips. "I want to help him."

The kingpin's sardonic laughter echoed hollowly in the building as he gestured once again. Another swift blow was delivered, unerringly planted precisely where the initial strike landed. The unforgiving wallop made Abram's ears ring again. This time the chair toppled over, throwing Abram across the unforgiving concrete with a sharp grunt. Clouds of dust rose up, swirling about him, drifting through the cool dawn. Sighing, Abram sagged along the cold concrete, relieved when the pressure biting into his shoulders had eased.

Winston's polished shoe tips appeared in his wavering view.

"As I said before, a great number of subjects are hunting Jonathan down. Pity, really." Winston paused, reflecting fondly. "Men like John Wick are legends, _relics even_ , and should be preserved."

Abram craned his neck up just as the cold tip of a silencer was pressed firmly to his forehead.

Fear crawled into his chest, sinking its teeth upon his heart as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I swear," he gasped. "I'm trying to _help_ Wick! I want him on _my side_ ," he worked his lungs, sucking in the dust and stagnant air. "Killing me is only a disadvantage at saving your friend."

The truth was out now.

Abram did not want to help John because he spared him his life or that he felt bad. Not at all. In the end, he was still a Tarasov.

He wanted John Wick for intimidation, protection, and power through fear. Abram knew how the underground felt about Wick, for he felt the same. If his resources were applied carefully, he could slowly turn the tide that ruled New York. If things went favorably, he could hold his own spot at the High Table with Wick at his side.

Another blow wracked his skull, derailing his thoughts.

Stunned, Abram slumped, resting his head against the dusty concrete.

He muttered a prayer in his mother tongue and prepared to die.

* * *

As suddenly as they appeared, the two young men held hostage in her home were gone. Work kept her mind busy from wondering their whereabouts and what Kennedy and John unleashed upon them was also a mystery. Logan considered the logistics of such affairs. Were they dead? Where did the bodies go? And at some point, certainly someone would come looking for them if they had been killed. A loved one or family member, perhaps. They were young, from what she could tell, too young to be propelled into a shadowy profession of crime and blood money. Where were their parents?

As for Kennedy and Caldron, she rarely saw them. If more men were joining the cause, there wasn't any indication. And if events at the corn field kept both men and their cohorts in constant engagement, she was _still_ the last to know. It wasn't as if John willingly shared any insight and she certainly had no intentions of asking. If they wanted her help, _they knew where to find her._

Eventually, however, she knew a more challenging subject made an appearance. _If_ Kennedy and his crew _were_ disposing of every encounter in the west, it was only a matter of time before a more seasoned vet caught wind. What if the bounty for Wick's life increased? Was that even possible? Plus, the cell's battery life would soon die and their diversion would be lost. Then back to scouring Texas entirely.

 _Then what?_

Where did that place future assaults? Would they hone in on her house? Kennedy's? McKinley's? Morgan's? Adam's? Who was safe and who wasn't? As the thoughts continued to unravel at an alarming pace, Logan feared they'd allowed too many people to get involved. She never wanted a large gathering. It was too risky. Someone could slip up and mention John's whereabouts or worse, _come for John themselves_. Though, Caldron trusted every man in the operation, Logan did not.

There had to be more to it than killing every soul out for Wick. Their answers, more specifically _John's_ , did not reside in the Lone Start state. If their intentions were to kill every man, woman and child that came for Wick's head, there simply wasn't enough resources for the lot of them. Caldron, Kennedy, even John. They were not an unstoppable army. Even Logan knew Caldron was getting old.

Moreover, though Ryder estate was off the grid, without internet, cable, even managing their own septic systems, it wasn't fool proof. It was large and positioned like a beacon atop of precipice over the steep rolling hill county. Austin and San Antonio were not far. And like any other city, they were replete of crime and its cohorts looking to cash in. Who knew what neighbors lied in waiting for Wick?

By now, John had resumed his usual taciturn brooding. After the two lads were separated, interrogated and _who knew what else_ , he and Kennedy spoke for hours. Also, given his decision to move on without further mention of their short-lived heavy-petting, Logan had no other option but to respect his wishes and follow suit. In truth, she preferred it, considering her own indecision at whether she loathed or liked John. Pretending it had never happened settled the issue.

 _Leave the man alone._


	20. Chapter 20

_Fate_  
 _Up against your will_  
 _Through the thick and thin_  
 _He will wait until_  
 _You give yourself to him_

* * *

The next day Logan was standing in the maintenance office, thumbing through the discrepancy log of an aircraft when another joined her.

"Afternoon, Miss Ryder," the voice said, one she'd heard a thousand times over. Without looking, she knew it was Captain Sullivan, a tall regal blonde who Logan had flown with many times before. Her coworker brushed past her as while she continued to look over the data.

"Good afternoon, ma'am." she muttered, perusing the logbook.

Outside, the sweltering heat rippled over the concrete like a thick blanket. Heavy Boeing 747s rolled across a scarred blacktop while smaller aircraft waited along taxiway intersections. The Texas heat was not within full reign, but summer had certainly arrived and it was only going to get worse. Between the jets taking off and engines spooling up, the screaming churrs of cicadas hidden amidst the treetops braided their reprise.

"Lt. Falken is finally getting married. Did she tell you?" Sully added. When Logan shook her head, she continued. "She's having a party at the Menger Hotel in San Antonio, if you want to go. She's been too busy to make official invites so you can consider this your formal invitation."

Interest piqued, Logan looked up towards the Captain smiling. Her bright blue eyes were an unearthly cerulean and a celestial crown of blonde hair, lightened by the sun, was braided to one shoulder. A flight helmet rested along her desk nearby.

"The Menger?" Logan echoed, considering. She enjoyed Texas history as any native would. But San Antonio was bustling, especially near the riverwalk where the Menger was located. It was also _steps_ away from the Alamo.

Tempted to accept the invitation, after a moment's thought, Logan wasn't sure the trip was worth it or appropriate. Her association with Wick followed her like a warning sign. Now _she_ was paranoid people would be after her. Also, the farm was a never-ending chore which she had been neglecting for some time. Ever since her last attempt to fix something broken on her property, she'd been somewhat deterred and heavily armed. Even still, she could still hear the knife punching threw the man's throat, slinging blood spatter onto her face and painting her hands a slick red.

Blinking away the horrific image, she shook her head, looking back down at the logbook.

"I can't, I'm sorry." Logan tried not to make it a habit to fraternize with her colleagues. She came, performed her duties and returned home. No coffee, lunch gatherings, not even company parties or events held annually like Christmas.

 _A time, of course, before John Wick._

"Have you ever been out with us?" Sullivan asked, brow furrowed with a shadow of pity.

Logan knew the answer and hated admitting it. "No, never actually."

"Then you should come―relax a bit! I'm not going to beg," she deadpanned, "But I can guarantee a good time."

The Captain lifted up her flight bag and draped it over her shoulder, preparing to head out.

Pausing at Logan's side, she added with a salacious wink, "If you decide to go, it's a bachelorette party, so girls only."

* * *

After hardly a thought, Logan decided to go. _Why not?_

Friday had come with a dreary pace and made her restless by the end of work. Perhaps a few hours and distance between her and mercurial John Wick was what she needed to set her fickle thoughts in order.

Shifting through her wardrobe, she searched for something appropriate for the occasion.

Freshly showered, wet hair wrapped in a towel atop her head, and clad in underwear, Logan rifled through the contents of her closet. Sliding aside hanger after hanger, every shade and fabric deterred her. How was she supposed to dress at a bachelorette's party? Skanky? Modest?

Sighing, Logan settled on a little black number she forgot she purchased. It still had the clothing tags attached to it. She held it up against herself, and decided it would have to do. It wouldn't be the first time she threw something on and headed out the door.

Removing, she laid it on the bed. Eyeing her bare feet, she wiggled her toes with indecision. Her comfortable flats clashed with her dress and it was too late to go shopping for another pair. Grace was not Logan's strong suit. She could move gracefully, however, it required _much_ thought and effort.

Despite Jennifer's best efforts to teach Logan the ways of an eloquent, well-accomplished maiden, it was never something Logan willingly did. She found the five inch heels torturous, and only wore them to please her mother. They came off as soon as Jennifer was not looking. Although, Logan grudgingly admitted, high heels certainly had their benefits. When Logan deigned to wear the dreaded footwear, they accented her calves and already high and tight rear end. Unfortunately, much time had elapsed since Logan wore anything other than her work boots and comfortable footwear. She opted for practicality, and pulled out the box containing her two and three quarter inch heeled shoes. Logan slipped the heels with their bright red, patent leather soles on, relieved to see they still fit comfortably―for now.

Moving on, Logan went to do her hair and makeup. After drying her hair, she combed it out, smoothed styling product on the long tresses and curled it into deep spirals.

Next was makeup, another of Logan's weaknesses. Her beauty regimen was as scarce as the dry, Texas plains, but at least she wore deodorant.

Tonight required more effort on her part. Something bold, something different, and unlike her normal routine.

Thoroughly scouting the search engine, Logan reviewed several tutorials before making a decision. Brow furrowed, she intently watched the video, mentally inventorying her cosmetic supplies. As best as she could, she followed step by step, applying charcoals, sweeps of black, and mascara. F

The final result: a smokey number that did well at emphasizing her eyes. Even Logan herself thought so.

After cleaning up, she returned to her bedroom and stepped into her dress. Carefully easing it up her body, she settled the fabric and smoothed it down and removed the tags. The black sumptuous material clung to her like a second skin. Its clever design had built in support panels for lifting and accentuating her bosom. A demure, high neckline flowed into the sheathed skirt that hugged the gentle swell of her hips. Its length fell to just below her knees, and the slit on the side enabled her to walk without hindrance.

Turning, she adjusted the delicate silver chain that secured the shoulders of the rich fabric in place. The sleeveless dress gave way to an open back, plunging to just above the dimples above her rear end. The risque design of her dress emphasized her athletic build, exposed the clear skin of her toned back and shoulders, in addition to showcasing her narrow waist and a firm posterior she was quite proud of.

The last thing to complete her outfit was a firearm.

 _Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it._

Using an all-black compression short fitted with front and rear holstering, she squeezed the fabric on, rolled the dress back down, and rechecked her figure in the mirror again. Thinking of her mother and the shock and awe if she saw Logan now, she smiled. Long hair tumbling down her back in deep ringlet curls, smoky eyes with lashes dark and feather-thick.

Wrapped in a dress, Logan stared at the coiffed, polished attired stranger with the reflection. It never hurt to look her best. Catching a few appreciative glances on the dance floor was not something she aimed for, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to feel pretty.

Forcing herself to slouch and extend an imaginary gut, Logan scratched her belly and smiled when the stunning brunette in the mirror turned into a more familiar posture. Despite the makeup, the dress, and heels, Logan made sure to remain humble.

Chuckling softly, she slipped on her sandals and carried her heels in one hand as she headed towards the safe room.

As she passed John's bedroom, she hesitated.

The door was closed and for a moment, she wondered if telling John was necessary. In truth, however, she wanted him to see this side of Logan Ryder; a more refined elegance, but as soon as the thought arrive, it vanished.

Decided, she continued past, taking the stairs down and following around to the door that led below. This night was not about John; it was about Logan finally allowing herself quality time with herself.

Punching in the code, she entered the dark interior, heading straight for the small compact nine drawer. She placed a black matte Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm Shield on top then a Sig Sauer P938 Scorpion in flat desert tan next to it. She compared the two.

The Shield complimented her outfit, too easy, no question.

Lifting up the hem of her dress, she slipped the pistol into her appendix hostler and smoothed the inky fabric back down.

Due to her petite frame, her pistol was easily identifiable―if someone knew where to look and what to look for... Nonetheless, it would be dark by the time she reached San Antonio. Plus, she truly had no intentions to dance―that would be absurd―so its detection should go unnoticed considering the club's innards would be dim, as well.

Logan was there to people watch. It was a preference she enjoyed and it kept the drink tab low.

Mounting the stairs, Logan rounded the corner and grabbed all her necessities from the bowl at the foyer.

After jotting a quick note down of her whereabouts, she headed for the garage.

* * *

Dusk was cooling the horizon as twilight closed in from above.

Driving her father's 2017 white Corvette, Logan pulled up to the Valet parking and awkwardly attempted to exit the very low positioned vehicle.

Carefully placing a high-heeled clad foot on the uneven ground, Logan used the door frame to haul herself up without exposing her upper thighs.

Logan extended her hand, proffering the Valet her keys.

Walking deliberately and slowly, lest the soft, red-leather soles of her heels cause her to slip on the slick cobblestones, Logan crossed the small square and entered the historic and revered _Menger Hotel._

Entering the downstairs bar within the hotel was much like stepping back into the 19th century with rich and deep sheens of the polished cherry wood paneling the ceiling and dominating the remaining interior. The Victorian-era styled saloon transported every soul crossing its threshold back to the pioneering days of the untamed, wild west. Only steps away from the Alamo, it was effortless to imagine such a dusty time when Texas fought for her independence and won.

Heavily inspired by London's own _House of Lords_ pub, the Menger's faithfully detailed replication boasted engraved booths, beveled mirrors imported from France, and second floor seating, offering a bird's eye view for patrons to observe the thickening crowds below.

Directly ahead, mounted against a sturdy beam of cherry wood, was the head of a bull moose keeping endless watch over framed photographs of President Theodore Roosevelt. Below that was a tribute to the Rough Riders he recruited to fight in the Spanish-American War.

A shrill report pierced the din of noisy patrons that filled the bar. It turned her eyes upward where she spotted several women leaning over the scarred banister. They were cheering in happy unison at her arrival. Logan smiled with shy delight at their warm welcome and gave a small wave, causing another enthusiastic cheer to erupt from the gaggle of women.

A group of men were gathered at the bar, who―taking note of the happily tipsy women and their lovely newcomer looking up at them, nudged their seated buddies. After turning in their seats, they were treated to an unobscured view of Logan's back. Had she seen their appreciative glances, she would have blushed deeply, especially when several men clutched the nearest buddy's shirt in his fist and bit the knuckles of his free hand, after catching glimpses of Logan's dimples, as her long tresses moved aside when she turned her head. The rest of the men enthusiastically cheered Logan's arrival as well, clapping and adding their cat calls and piercing whistles. By then, the entire patronage gathered within the bar turned to see what all the commotion was about.

Flushed, Logan made her way to the stairwell, ensuring to avoid any eye contact as she did. Three, no, _four_ women converged upon Logan at the top of the stairs. Their squeals and shrieks of delight and surprise at her arrival knew no decibel limit and rivaled that of a roaring Apache helicopter. Only then, did the whistle and clap happy crowd return to their own celebrations and gatherings.

As the revelry developed, several women looked well past their intake limit. Captain Sullivan was one of them, attempting to introduce the remaining patrons to Logan between bouts of laughter. There was Mika Barnett, the company's logistics officer. KD McDonald, the officer in charge of maintenance, and Alex Falken―the bride to be―who helmed the intelligence department as a warrant officer, much like Logan.

Their faces were familiar, yet Logan knew very little about the other women, and vice versa. Her only connecting tie to this group was Sullie and even then they were hardly acquaintances.

Logan sheepishly smiled, accepting and returning each warm, delighted embrace as they graciously welcomed her. Being in the midst of such camaraderie brought another sense of longing. Perhaps she'd been denying herself the wrong vice for too long? Was she drunk from happiness and acceptance?

 _Are you happy?_

Her father's words rushed to the forefront of her mind - a question she had not asked herself that in years . . . with an answer was not yet discovered.

In truth, Logan was simply going through the motions.

* * *

The night passed in a blur of colors, sounds and flashes of camera lights. After imbibing several beers with liquor shots between, Logan discovered a newfound courage amidst her friends. She was smiling, laughing, and conversing with strangers, a feat she abhorred since childhood and was enabled by her own untrusting father.

Soon enough, the drunken gang left the Menger bar and ventured outdoors.

Down the picturesque Riverwalk the merry group strolled. Sully had mentioned a club she was wishing to visit and the motley group fell in tandem strides.

The warm, fresh air kept them comfortable, and a slight breeze cooled their liquor fevered cheeks as the women exclaimed and giggled over the smallest antics as they drifted down the Riverwalk like a flock of catty hens.

Streams of lights reflected off the dark rippling water as a boat filled with passengers floated by. Strains of music clashed gently amidst the ambient night air before it was replaced by a nearby Mariachi band.

Logan heard the establishment well before she saw it. From her right, pulsating music lured them away from the riverwalk into the mouth of a shadowy dwelling dubbed _MadDog's_ British Pub.

Their drunken singing and pirouetting blended in as they ascended the small concrete steps. A heavy beat greeted them with a throbbing bass. Its weighted percussion drummed within Logan's chest as she drifted into thick shadows. Alex, the bride to be, quietly hung from Logan's elbow until they reached inside. Passing the hostess, she disconnected herself and veered off towards the bar, leaving Logan to eye the club that was so dark, it was almost a cave sans the flickering lights, changing from green to glaring red to a seductive purple and then a calming blue.

Biting her lip, she edged closer towards the center where most of the dancing occured.

In such a state, Logan's befuddled mind persuaded her to make the most of her liberating night. After all, she'd been stuck inside her home with the stoic, unreadable John Wick; a complete contrast to her currently uninhibited disposition. Whether it was the alcohol's devious effects or her polluted stupor, Logan was past caring.

Just when she turned away, to head for the bar, a gentle hand slipped into her hers. She glanced down and then up, dragging her eyes upward until settling upon the newcomer's handsome face.

Logan smiled, pleased with what she saw.

Equally pleased, he smiled back with sandy blond hair, dimples, and an arching brow that rose with piqued curiosity. Emboldened by her welcoming demeanor, he laced his fingers between hers and leaned to whisper into her ear, pulling her intimately close. Whether he intended to or not, it made Logan feel wanted. _Sexy, even_.

"Come dance with me," he managed to whisper over such volumes of prattle and music.

Unable to suppress her widening smile, she politely declined. "I don't dance!" she shouted back.

He gave her a pleading, cajoling look as flashes of blue washed over his rugged features.

"Not even for me?" He winked. Confident.

One her many lists of pet peeves were individuals who believed that with enough begging, they could always get their way. Setting her jaw, she shook her head and pulled her hand free. Despite his handsome face, Logan had enough contact for the evening. Not only was his proximity far from enticing, more importantly, she wished it were someone else.

Taking a step back, she bumped into a towering passerby clad in sharp black suit. Hoping to cause a distraction, she turned her head to apologize, but he was gone. The man had disappeared into the thick crowd, abandoning any segue she could utilize as an escape.

"Let me buy you a drink first?" his voice took her back, stepping closer so that she could hear him.

Deliberating, Logan finally agreed. The sooner they shared a drink, the sooner he'd leave her alone.

* * *

They downed a shot of tequila while he motioned to the bartender for more shots. After Logan eagerly sucked on her third lime wedge to rid her mouth of the assaulting taste, the stranger gently pulled her towards the dance floor. Standing upon the stretch of smooth flooring, his pale hair took on a surrealistic, chameleon-like quality beneath the kaleidoscopic lights. She tried to shake off her growing unease and ignore how the lights danced across his sharp features and gave him a sinister, demonic look.

As she drifted with the grace of lapping flame, Logan was thankful her feet didn't ache, especially as she was twirled and swayed beneath the medley of soft lights. Her partner was gentle, grasping her small wrists carefully as he draped them over his shoulders, his hands drifting down to rest against the swell of her hips as they swayed together.

He pulled her close, inadvertently pressing the frame of her 9mm Shield against his lower abdomen. Whether he noticed it or not, he gave no indication, and they continued to dance.

"What's your name?" he asked over the rising volume of music and drunken laughter.

"Michelle," not technically a lie.

"I'm Travis." he replied, "Are you from San Antonio?"

"No," she dropped her head back against her shoulders, closing her eyes against the soft lights washing over her face. He turned her around, pulling her back against his chest. The tequila was taking over because she allowed it.

"I'm from Corpus Christi," she fibbed.

"Oh, are you?" Hot breath brushed her neck as he spoke. "What brings you all the way up here?"

"Work," she murmured forcefully, tired of the talking.

Logan knitted her brow, trying to concentrate on anything but Travis. Just moments before she had felt euphoric, riding on the gentle waves of her inebriation. Now, she couldn't relax. The music that drummed around them was far too loud for conversation. She wished he'd just shut up and dance. He was ruining her mood with all the senseless chatter.

In fact, Logan realized suddenly, she'd lost interest entirely. Dancing, talking, _all of it._ Besides, she probably looked ridiculous. On top of that, the more time she spent with Travis the more uncomfortable she became.

Pulling away at once, she thanked him for the drinks and the dance, and slipped back into the dense crowd.

When she returned to the bar, she found Alex nursing a beer and alone. Logan gestured for a second one and climbed onto a stool next to the bride-to-be.

"Thank you," Logan huffed when the cold beer appeared before her. A chilly wisp drifted over the opening like a graveyard fog. She took a long pull and sighed. "My feet hurt now."

Alex smirked as she took a small sip, "That's why I wore Converse."

Logan nodded, bringing the mouth of the bottle back against her lips. She tilted it back and the bubbles rushed over her tongue, cooling her throat as she drank.

As they sat against the bar drinking, the surmounting drinks filled her bladder. The pistol pressed against her lower torso only added to her urgency; eventually Logan had to relieve herself, she could no longer ignore nature's call.

"Watch my drink." She slid off the barstool, dropping almost half a foot to the floor. She wandered through the thick crowd, spotting an illuminated hallway across the way with an emergency exit at the end. Restrooms was what captured her eyes.

Fighting the congested crowd, she weaved and elbowed her way through until finally reaching the short hallway. A pounding fell out of sync with the music.

 _Heavy footsteps or was it just music?_

Her hands came up, extending for the door while a force suddenly collided against her backside. Stumbling forward, the door was shoved open, nearly twisting her ankle as her heels ungainly sought the floor. She fell inside, tripping and plummeting onto the hard, dirty tile. As quickly as the door opened, it shut, snuffing out the rhythmic music as Logan wrenched around and looked up.

Locking the door, Travis stood before her.

A spike of sobriety jarred her as she narrowed her eyes up at him.

Unable to understand what was about to happen, she could only glare up at him disdainfully.

Travis stepped forward. Reaching down, he snatched a fistful of her hair and roughly hauled her to her feet. Logan clutched his wrist, trying to free herself as she kicked out at him.

"You know what I want," he grated as he threw her forward, pinning her against the wall. He was upon her immediately, tongue pressing insistently against her pursed lips, hands scouring her body cruelly. She fought him, pushing and clawing as he pawed at her dress.

"Get the fuck off of me!" she shrieked.

"Why?" He snarled as he lowered his zipper. "Don't act like you don't want it!"

Logan raised a foot, trying to spike him with her heel. She missed. The alcohol's effects inhibited her strength and coordination. Unable to maneuver enough space between them to defend herself, Logan was helpless as Travis crowded against her and used his body and height to his advantage.

"Get off me!" she shrieked again, desperately attempting to ward off his roving hands.

Travis cut off Logan's protests by sealing her lips with his. No matter which way she turned her head, he followed, swiping his tongue across her face as he licked her fevered skin. Travis swatted her hands aside and pulled her dress up. When her thighs were exposed, he brought his hand up with the intention to paw like animal at her lower torso, but instead, brushed her pistol.

Logan tried to wrench free, to squirm and use all efforts of training, but he freed the pistol from its holster and she felt the barrel press right into her temple.

She froze.

"Turn around," he panted into her ear, grinding his hips into hers so she could feel the unmistakable bulge in his pants.

 _Rape._

The word came like a shock of cold water, kickstarting her heart and sending frightening jolts down to her fingertips.

The tip of her Shield was trembling against her skull as he spoke with excitement. A round was loaded into the chamber, as always. Furthermore, Shields came with a trigger safety, not a conventional external thumb switch. Between the bullet and her skull was a fully depressed trigger and nothing else.

"Yeah, don't act surprised, Michelle. You think you can walk away from me? I'm gonna fuck every hole you've got, bitch. Turn around!"

 _Rape._

She obeyed, twisting around until her exposed back faced him. Fear battled against her thoughts as she tried to recall the moves she'd learned for this very scenario. Meanwhile his fingers dug into her waistband, yanking the fabric down and revealing her flesh.

 _Rape._

The word ricocheted in her head, forcing her careful thoughts to derail back into fight or flight mode.

 _Do something!_ Her begging mind reeled as panic flared across her chest, stiffing her limbs and scattering her thoughts. What was she supposed to do again? Bring her elbow down, catch her arms, and drive her knee upward?

What about the loaded gun pressed to her head?

She'd never expected in such a crowded place, something so horrific could occur. This was not how it was to happen, not against her will. It was not up to a stranger to take something so personal and intimate from her in a shambly bathroom.

Icy fear worked her lungs in ragged, short breaths as she tried to clear her head. Of all the training she'd endured and practice for such an occasion, the one thing that had been omitted was _real fear._ She'd never expected to feel so helpless and overruled.

Then a knock came from the door, stiffening both Logan and Travis. What kind of irrational decisions would he make now that someone was at the door?

The Shield trembled in his white-knuckled grasp as he racked his mind on what to do.

Though, she wanted to scream for help, she found herself more focused on the pistol than anything else.

"Tell them you're in here," he hissed in her ear. "Say thing else and I kill you both." Travis had locked the door on his way in, but it was a timeworn slide latch with a frame barely held onto the surface of the door.

Trembling, Logan obeyed.

"Someone's in here!" Focused on the barrel against her face, her quivering voice made her words faint and strained as she spoke. Another series of knocks, incessant and louder than the previous had the door rattling on its decaying hinges.

"For fuck's sake, say it louder," he hissed once more, pressing the barrel harder against her scalp.

She licked her lips and tried again, "Someone's in—"

As loud and startling as a gunshot, the door flew open and the barrel disappeared from her head. Logan turned, trying to duck away as she pulled her undergarment back up. The newcomer and Travis went head on, punching her assailant across the face and forcing him to fall back against the fleeing woman.

They both fell to the floor. Her gun was dropped and sent skittering across the tile, far out of reach.

Then someone's hands were upon her, hauling her to her feet then steering her towards the exit.

 _A tall man in a black suit._

Plucking up her pistol, Logan stumbled forward, cursing the contraptions around her feet as she reached for the door. Holstering the weapon, she glanced back, seeing John reach down, grab Travis by the collar and deliver several more blows. His head bucked back while blood exploded from his nose. His incapacitated frame fell back into a slack heap to be left abandoned in the women's bathroom.

Turning, John stood, caught her by the arm, and exited the bathroom.

Stunned and still rather inebriated, though not as much as before, Logan followed mutely. They took a left, away from the deafening music and writhing bodies towards the exit she'd spotted earlier, before her night took a terrible turn.

Breaking out into a temperate night under a full moon, they walked outside into the back portion of the club where a loading ramp and freight equipment awaited them. Shattered glass littered the dark pavement beneath the streetlights like stars and a dilapidated fence separated the alley from a barren parking lot filled with weeds and cracked asphalt.

John took the stairs down, in which case, so did Logan. He hadn't released his hold yet. Blinking, and still quite drunk, her curiosity was too much. Though she was relieved to find John here with impeccable timing, it still made her wonder.

"What are you doing here, John?" she asked, trudging along.

"I followed you," he muttered, weaving their path around parked cars and dumpsters. "And you're welcome."

"I had it under control," she shot back, nostrils flaring in irritation.

Glaring at his back as they stole their way among the shadows, Logan jerked and snatched her arm free. She opened her mouth to protest, but he whirled around, caught her wrist yet again, and pulled her along.

Dressed entirely in black, she realized John was appropriately attired for the occasion in a tailored suit, dress shoes and a black collared Oxford she hadn't seen before. She tried to recall where he got such articles, but her mind drew a blank. They were not her father's clothes, and certainly didn't belong to the oak tree that was Kennedy.

"Where did you get that suit from?" The inane question left her mouth as she stumbled and tottered along as fast as her heels and ungainly gait allowed.

"I've had it," he said over his shoulder as he searched the shadowy recesses for anything awry.

Tilting her head as John dragged her along, Logan slipped her free hand beneath the flaring end of his coattail and her fingertips brushed against the unmistakable pistol's frame and several loaded magazines.

 _Figures_ , she thought with jealousy, _she'd have multiple magazines too if her dress allowed concealment._

John whipped around, catching her free wrist in a painful hold, assuming she was trying to disarm him.

"You are hurting me," she grumbled, glaring up at his unreadable visage.

"You need to be more careful."

Reaching the edge of the square, they had taken a long, circuitous route around the hotel and its neighboring businesses. By doing so, they skirted the more congested areas like the Riverwalk. Together, they entered the Menger hotel and approached the front desk where a middle-aged woman behind the counter fixed Logan with a stern look. Her lips curled downward with thinly veiled disgust at Logan tethered to a well-dressed business man looking to end his night with an anonymous rut.

John's possessive grip on her upper arm only sealed the woman's mistaken assumption. As they passed a mirror, a brief glimpse of herself revealed to Logan she had danced and panicked her pretty facade away. Unfortunately for her, Logan realized she did, in fact, resemble a licentious escort. Feeling her cheeks warm, she stared at the floor and then at her dirty heels now speckled in mud and wet gravel.

Deeply embarrassed at her shameful state, Logan turned her face away, looking elsewhere but at the frowning, disapproving woman behind the reception desk. Despite Logan's damning circumstances, the architecture around her was in stark contrast: clean, a pristine white, and smelled wonderful. John, too, glanced around, counting the patrons and exit routes, seeming ill at ease―and rightly so…

Once the transaction completed, the woman handed John their room keys with a dour smile.

"Thank you," he politely told the woman before taking the card keys and heading towards the second floor. Logan removed her heels, unable to withstand another moment perched atop the torturing devices.

Padding quietly up the stairs, the moment they slipped beyond earshot and the line of sight of any observers, Logan jerked her arm away and halted.

Splaying her toes to keep from losing her balance, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest and raked John with a slitted glare.

"Why are you really here, John?" she hissed. "I could have taken care of that man myself. You don't have to babysit me."

He regarded her coolly, slipping his free hand into his pocket casually.

"I had the situation under control." Logan further insisted through tightly gritted teeth.

"With what?" he tilted his head, "Your pistol?"

"Yes," she unabashedly admitted, blinking to consolidate her doubling vision.

"No," John said simply. "You weren't."

He turned away and continued towards their room, his long strides soon leaving her behind. Indignant, Logan scampered after him, recalling the fight in vivid detail with John's miraculous intervention. It was too fluid.

"Were you watching me?" she hissed quietly.

He shoved the card into the reader and the light blinked green. Slamming the handle down, he pushed the door open and propped it against the wall with a splayed hand. Turning his eyes onto Logan, he gave her a _look._

Logan peered into the dimly lit room and then towards John. "Why are we even here?"

"You're drunk, Logan." he replied calmly. "I'm leaving you here."

"I'm not going in there," Logan declared as she crossed her arms again, heels dangling from her fingers while she glared with unwavering defiance.

John eased up on the door, taking careful glances up and down the halls.

Reading this, Logan tried jumping back when he moved, but she hadn't twisted around in time. He caught her waist seconds before she launched into a sprint.

"Let go." she growled, thrashing wildly. He quickly pulled her into the room, lest they soon have an audience. Throwing her heels aside as she caught the doorframe with all her might, pulling with barely enough purchase. Slowly, she began slipping from John's hold.

John's leg shot up. Braced against the wall, he pulled her back and the doorframe was ripped from her grasp. The door closed with a firm click and they both fell to the floor. Logan was already scrambling to her feet, making a beeline for the door. Again, John thwarted her efforts by intercepting her. He placed himself between her and the only exit.

 _Only . . . exit?_

They were on the second floor.

Logan threw a glance over her shoulder, eyeing the sliding glass door and the balcony beyond it. John already anticipated her next move and advised against her foolish course of action.

"Don't―."

Turning, she ineptly raced across the room. Coordination severely impaired, she tripped over her bare feet, landing against the soft carpet. John caught her, flipped her onto her back and straddled her hips. His combed back hair fell forward onto a sweat-beaded brow and heat rolled off of him like a small sun. The suit had to be thick and stifling against the warm Texas air. Unfortunately―and from what she could tell―the distinguished ensemble also allowed full range mobility.

Logan threw her hips up, her dress hiking around her waist as she struggled, the black compression shorts and their contents revealing themselves. John crawled up until his knees pressed painfully into her upper arms, pinning her to the floor. Reaching back, he fumbled the gun free. A quick flick of his wrist dropped the magazine as he jettisoned the chambered round before he threw the gun aside and stood, assuming the fight had reached its end.

 _Wrong._

As he stood, using the element of surprise Logan jumped to her feet, spearing him about his midsection. He pivoted, moving with her, and backing himself into a wall. Wrestling her arms free, he lifted her up to her full stature, wrenched around and slammed her back against the wall.


	21. Chapter 21

_In starlit nights I saw you_  
 _So cruelly you kissed me_  
 _Your lips a magic world_  
 _Your sky all hung with jewels_  
 _The killing moon_  
 _Will come too soon_

 ***this chapter contains smuts***

* * *

In the dim dwelling of their hotel room, a defeated huff of air expelled from Logan's lungs from the impact of John, who had her pressed against the wall. From the time he collected her from the bar until now, she had been unruly and difficult. Now, her arms were crisscrossed over her body, both wrists seized in his iron grip.

For the second time that evening, a man was pressed against Logan. Albeit, there was no fear this time, only frustration. She couldn't win for losing, apparently. Not against Travis and, to no surprise, not against John. It infuriated her, to say the least. More instances were coming forth to reveal just how _useless_ she truly was. Perhaps she wasn't capable of protecting John and only sought into getting in the way. Now it'd been recently proven she could barely protect herself. If John hadn't arrived, she'd be in ruins in a shambly bathroom in the middle of San Antonio with a hiked dress and no gun. Possibly even dead.

 _In fact, what if..._

Her polluted mind unfurled rapidly before John, still pressed against her, arms painfully cinched across her chest.

 _What if her presence was merely compromising?_

The insecurities were surmounting, whether from the drinks or her own existential clarity, it could not be said. The only thing she wanted at the moment was _control._ Control had not been within reach for sometime. She'd lost that when Caldron brought Wick into her life that stormy night. The times she was able to prove her worth, it took much effort. Not once did she slip by unscathed and it seemed John was coming in from behind, cleaning up her mess, tending to her wounds and smoothing out all the disorder.

This misjudgment heated her cheeks with humiliation, reminding her of all the matters she had little say over, of what little control was left. Now thinking back to the moment in the bathroom with Travis breathing down her neck she had nearly lost it all to some stranger. In a moment, it was gone entirely. There was nothing she could say or do. And once again, it was John's intervention that turned the tides, sparing her something so horrific and traumatizing. She should be thankful for his sudden appearance, instead, she was ashamed she couldn't take care of it herself.

What _did_ she have control over?

Succumbing to her indisposition, she relaxed and sagged against the wall and John. Throughout her body hummed a sensation she couldn't ignore, an insistent, throbbing, dull ache. Certain _portions_ ran hotter than the rest, igniting the smoldering fire now burning deep in her belly. Though her mind was in a steep internal rebuke, her body responded with other regards.

Her sheer defiance surfaced with an unrestrained vengeance, compelling her to elicit a response from John―something, _anything_. Perhaps she could regain control. In truth, she wanted to prove herself... _to_ herself. But still, her efforts were in vain.

Reading her inebriated expression, John was taken aback. Eyes narrowing slightly, he didn't let up. In fact, he pushed harder against her, squeezing the remaining air caught in her lungs from her.

Logan winced, glowering eye to eye. Despite her efforts, a small grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Looking up coquettishly beneath dark lashes, she found John's predatory glare level with hers. The smile ceased, a sound catching in her throat. Mesmerized, she stilled in John's grasp; his intense expression alone extinguished her mischief like a doused flame. John was _not_ in the mood for Logan's games.

Across the ceiling, refracted light from the pool below danced against the ceiling.

"John?" Logan swallowed as he leaned closer, reminding her of their shared kiss not too long ago. Her knee was healed. No longer did her ribs sing against every breath, nor her shoulder protest movement.

 _She was fine,_ she told herself as the space between their lips diminished at the rate of the rising moon. _Just fine. It'll be okay,_ she confirmed weakly as his breath washed over her lips.

But now Logan could feel his warmth, the coarse fabric of his slacks pressing against her exposed thigh. Her dress had hiked dangerously around her hips during their strife. If John was not in the mood for games, it was hard to tell. In her chest, her heart was already responding, ready to soar into the heavens. The hold he had upon her arms loosened, allowing her elbows to drop and for John to press his chest against hers.

He turned his head, tilting it and Logan's body responded like a returning tide, naturally and without thought.

The bristle of his beard. Warm soft lips, forgiving and gentle, unlike the firmness of his body pressed into hers. Her poor heart fluttered and then kick started, punching against her rib cage.

The tiny, smoldering ember of her longing and desire for John reignited, burning its way through her limbs and curling her toes until the bones popped and the muscles burned.

He released her arms, allowing her to clutch his face and tangle her fingers through his soft hair. Encouraging him to deepen this fervid kiss, the primordial need to have him took over as her legs drew up, hiking around his hips.

 _Tonight, she wanted control._

She felt it everywhere, shaking her limbs, rattling her teeth, burning her from the inside out. If John was a flame, Logan was kindled.

An arm snaked behind her, lifting her, he pulled away from the wall. Crossing the room in a single stride, John eased them onto the bed without severing the kiss and slowly his traced his fingertips up her thigh. He found the waistband of her compression shorts and carefully pulled, sliding it down her legs.

 _Control..._

Logan ignored her frightened heart and how it hammered like a frantic rabbit.

While John removed her holster undergarment, Logan swept her long, dark hair to one shoulder and released the small clasp at the nape of her neck. She stood and John peeled the black fabric away from her shoulders; it slid down her body to land in a heap at her feet.

Stripped down to just her lacy panties, Logan kept her eyes downcast, excitement and shyness revived the dormant butterflies in her belly.

 _Control._

If she could share this moment with John, no one else could take it from her. She was in control, finally.

John peeled back his dark blazer, tossing it aside and unbuttoning his grey dress shirt beneath it. The clothing slid over his sculpted shoulders, exposing a pale chest, threaded with muscles beneath the moonlight. Emboldened, Logan stepped closer, tracing her palms over his hardened skin up to his neck. Tangling her hand in his hair, she gently lured him against her mouth. He obliged, stepping into her as she sucked and nipped his bottom lip, lapping gently with her tongue, coaxing his tongue with hers. A deep rumble came from his chest, just beneath her palms, and she breathed deeply as her head swam as if she were drunk all over again.

A hand palmed her back while the other gripped her bottom firmly. Hooking his fingers over the thin waistband, he pulled them down until Logan was able to wiggle them down into a pool at her feet. Stepping out of her panties, he pushed and she fell back, bouncing against the bed, utterly naked, her knees instinctively closing against one another to preserve her modesty.

 _Control._

This was what she wanted. She elicited such from John and it gave her power to see him respond.

John didn't allow her to feel an inkling of vulnerability or shyness much longer. Undoing his belt, he released the button of his trousers and pushed them down. Stepping out of the heap of fabric, she could see John's own bodily response straining against his boxers.

Molten heat churned in her core, filling her with a breathless ache and icy fear. Until now, she hadn't noticed the hotel's cool air caressing her body's natural reaction. Slipping his thumbs into the waistband, he dropped the last remaining article of clothing and stood naked before her.

A prickle of fear eddied its way into her whirlwind of desire at the sight of him. Well-endowed, his member springing free of its restraint was engorged, thick and heavy. The sight alone was enough to second guess herself.

Already trembling with anticipation, now she quaked, unsure if her body could accommodate him accordingly. But there was an impatient urge to find out. Also, a need to get it over with. The sooner, the better. As foolish as it sounded, she feared Travis would come through the door and finish what he started.

Lowering his hands onto the bed, John crawled forth, encompassing her with his shadow. His knees parted her legs as he dipped his head, kissing the rapid pulse beneath her throat, following her collarbone and nipping her shoulder gently. Her skin prickled as he moved his head over the valley of her breasts, his beard and hair tickled her skin, sending chills throughout.

Unable to hide her trembling, Logan squeezed her eyes closed, wondering how much more stimulation she could endure without bursting. She focused on remembering to breathe, but even that seemed to fall into the back of her mind when John Wick effortlessly inflamed every sense Logan possessed.

A hot mouth followed by a roving tongue latched onto her nipple. She bit down on her lip until the pain and pleasure coalesced. He moved to the other one, suckling and pulling, nestling his mouth and beard against her soft mound, flooding her mind and body with heat.

A ragged sound escaped Logan's lungs. She had no idea what to do, or where to put her hands. Indecisive, she settled on his shoulders, reveling in the feel and movement of his hard muscles as he held himself up. He nipped her flesh and her hands dropped and clutched along the bed sheets, trying to hold herself together. She sucked in a sharp breath, a hissing emission between her rattling teeth.

Eventually, he brought an arm between their legs, and Logan felt him brush her entrance.

She stiffened and her heart thundered.

Control, she reminded herself, but the longer it became, the more it felt like fear and reckless abandon.

Physically, her body passionately responded to his touch. Emotionally, she was overwhelmed. It was too much intimacy all at once - skin to skin with a completely naked _John Wick_ , sharing heat and passion.

 _It must be a dream…_

Rubbing the tip of his rigid length against her sodden folds, Logan gasped when he brushed the head over her bundle of sensitive nerves. He remained there, running slow arduous circles, painting her with her own arousal. His eyes locked onto hers, watching how she moaned, trembled, begged and writhed beneath him. The corner of her eyes stung, her throat went dry.

Recentering himself, he positioned the tip against her warm core. Logan held her breath, anchoring her arms along his shoulders as his hardened flesh sought entrance.

His hips tilted and her body protested. Penetration was not as effortless as she imagined, considering John's _girth._ Her body yielded slowly as he pushed into her center. Logan opened her mouth to gasp, cry, or moan―she couldn't decide as he entered her fully, driving the air from her lungs and all coherent thought from her mind. He rolled his hip forwards and her body yielded completely, giving way to his entire invading length with a sharp, sudden surrender. John lowered his face into her neck, taking measured breaths against her while working his hips as tenderly as he could. His arms rest around her like a cage, protecting her from the witnessing moon and stars.

Logan forced her own breath and in time, John lifted up, holding her gaze as he worked himself deeper, prolonging each push and pull in languid fashion.

Anchoring her fists in the bedding, she raised her hips and he cupped her bottom. Lost in the feelings and sensations his body elicited, Logan closed her eyes, feeling John sink back down again, their chests meeting a second time. Legs rubbing along his hips, fingers finding a path through his long tresses, she explored areas she hadn't before, licking and kissing the tattoo on his bicep, tasting the sweat and heat. John claimed her mouth with a tender kiss.

Ignorant to what was yet to come, she focused on the physical proximity and all her senses. The affection, the suffocating intimacy, _that was to be ignored_. If she thought about them, she'd lose control and that was the last thing she wanted.

Breath ragged and choppy, her toes curled and she lifted her head from the pillow, lips parted, lungs heaving, feet bouncing with every work of his hips. She watched their bodies meet again and again. A pressure came rapidly, cinching her core like a taut rope and she tried to choke his name out, to warn him as he drove into her, but the unexpected release silenced her as it surged through her, wracking her frame like electric shock. John must have felt it too, for even he moaned as his body drove deeply into her.

In a single thrust, burying his entire length into her, John stilled with a sharp gasp. He gripped her hips tightly, squeezing until it hurt while his body seized in ecstasy. Tendrils of his dark hair that hung like a curtain around his face trembled as he hovered above her, eyes squeezed tight.

Panting and sated, John lowered himself atop of her, carefully easing his weight down. Inside, Logan could feel everything; _John_ _,_ his length, his release. She harbored them into her mind and for now, she felt victorious.

If only for a moment, she was in control. Now that John had that piece of her, no one could take it and it's not like she loved him.

 _No harm, no foul._

It the dim light, John withdrew himself and lowered himself at her side. Staring at the ceiling, Logan was silent, emptying her mind of any sense of guilt or shame at her licentious and wanton behavior. Perhaps he didn't know and that was for the best. She didn't want him to know anything about her. Thus far, she had been nothing short of a liability. Caldron had lied, making her believe she was worthy of such a task. She was merely background noise at this point, a hindrance. She needed to remove herself before she got hurt or worse, attached.

A strong arm slipped beneath her head and cradled around her shoulder. Slick tendrils of hair clung to her temples in sweat, her body thrummed in satisfaction as she relaxed in John's unexpected embrace.

This was what she wanted, Logan reminded herself as sharp twinges of pain tugged at her heart. She staunched it, ignoring the way her pleading heart sang with such foreign affections. These were things she did not understand nor wanted to. They were frivolous, beyond comprehension, and only inhibited her―like owning a pet. They were things beyond her control and they could shatter and destroy her if she allowed them.

Furthermore, wasn't this part of the game? John and Logan falsely betrothed to rally in a small army to fend off an inevitable war?

 _Yes,_ she assured herself as sleep quickly took over, _this was all just a game_.

 _It was time they played their parts._

* * *

 **okay phew. Not ignoring you all, just had to get some chapters out quickly to get the blood flowing. I'm working a lot now so I might not be able to update as frequently.**

 **SHD294: Yes, if you purchase Whiskey/Tango optics from Sig Sauer, their optics have requirements to meet 'pinpoint accuracy.' Caliber, model, and weight to find the right bullet drop compensation. They're also quite the price $$$. It's the least they can do, right? Hell, the riflescope better mow my lawn and walk my dog.**

 **Sylarfan: wouldn't you be upset if you trained your entire life to be a billy bad ass and it turns out you're not? Plus, being upset causes irrational decisions *wink wink nudge nudge* I didn't respond to this sooner because I didn't want to ruin in by saying they bone.**

 **Inkandtrees: I hope this satisfies your hunger. I'm also glad you like the side stories. I don't want them to take away from the real plot though. But I need them to ramp things up and have you guys in 'the know.'**

 **Guest(s): Thank you!**

 **AllThingsWeird35: I'm very happy to hear that!**

 **Suzzie: I like Stormare. It's unfortunate he's always the bad guy?**

 **If i didn't get to the rest of the reviews its because they were several chapters back and I don't want to get confused or confuse anyone... I'll try to be more diligent in responses now that I've got these three out so far.**

 **Thank you all for the reviews/readings!**


	22. Chapter 22

Kennedy sat on the dusty ground inside the abandoned silo, his legs stretched before him. In one hand was a walkie-talkie, in the other was a Ka-Bar warthog knife he spun absentmindedly along his palm. Strapped to his waist was a utility belt, a kydex holster where he kept a Desert Eagle 1911 in .45 ACP, and several extra magazines. A round was chambered and ready, eight more are on standby with plenty of replacements to follow.

Outside was a clear night sky and full moon. Surrounding the corroded structure was complete silence, but Kennedy, as did McKinley and Ayrie, knew better; _they were coming_.

Morgan had presented to the property well in advance to speak to the owners of the farm. If they were to keep up their explicit acts of violence, it would inevitably garner a few suspicious glances. In truth, they wished to avoid innocents getting caught in the crossfire; _to hell with everything else._

 _Plus,_ when a Texas Ranger knocks, you answer.

Morgan told the old couple he needed to survey their land for the oncoming weeks, that _reports_ were coming in of unruly trespassers, immigrants, drug smuggling, maybe even human trafficking. Though the elderly had no say in the matter, allowing them to think so, helped smooth the process over. Permission was granted, and Kennedy could relax just a bit more than before.

The people hunting Wick were becoming smarter, in seemed. The first half-dozen couldn't figure out what the silo was, and the rest began flanking the structure from the sides and rear, using the tall stalks to their advantage. At one point, a man walked right past Kennedy. He didn't see the elongated, displaced shrubbery or the twenty-something inch barrel jutting out with a suppressor attached to the end. But Kennedy didn't blame him; sometimes he spooked himself.

Pressing his broad back against the cool metal surface, he waited in pitch darkness. They always came when it was dark, like the French and Native Americans.

Rust had eaten through the walls, allowing slivers of moonlight to slip through, spot lighting small portions of the concrete with a ghostly glow. Ayrie and McKinley were using the NODs tonight somewhere. Their last contact advised Kennedy of their positions further down the road. If anything headed their way, they'd be the first to know.

Taking a slow, silent breath, he filled his lungs and continued to wait, trying not to picture something in the impenetrable darkness looking back at him. Something skittered past him; _a rat._ He mentally groaned in annoyance.

Perhaps it was the same rodent that startled the first assailants.

He chuckled, recalling the memory fondly.

The small radio in his hand coughed as static filtered through. He looked down at the screen's orange glow.

" _KY, we got incoming -_ _ **fast**_ _."_

KY was his nickname, like Kay-Why, because he was slippery, especially for the ladies. He put away his knife.

Drawing his knees up, he rested a forearm and hit the press-to-talk key, "What's it look like?"

" _Black F-150, multiple hostiles in back. We're en route."_

" _Roger."_ Kennedy acknowledged quietly.

On cue, the roaring engine and tires rolling against soil reached him. Shouting and hollering like hoodrats strung out on _wacky tobacky._ It appeared they had no intentions of a surprise.

Rising, he silenced and clipped the device against a molle loop on his chest rig and adjusted his hand firmly around the 1911's pistol grip. He leaned against the nearby wall.

"Where's his car?" someone muttered.

"Behind it, ya think?" Another replied.

"John Wick!" A third voice called; the one in charge, Kennedy reckoned. The truck's engine cut, amplifying more laughter. "You in there? Because if you are, you might wanna come outside!"

Several men chuckled in conjunction.

Kennedy chuckled, too.

McKinley and Ayrie finally met back along the road at the same time. Breathing carefully from the near dead-sprint, Ayrie motioned quietly towards McKinley; they both split off into the tall corn field.

Car doors slammed and steps scuffed against the dirt. Perhaps surrounding the silo. Kennedy waited, ears and eyes straining to see in the oppressive darkness.

"I'd hate to have to do what D'Antonio did to your home," the man went on, his voice drawing closer. Kennedy could picture him; nicely dressed like the ones who fell before him. Hands resting in his pockets, leisurely strolling with not a care and all the time in the world to waste. Already Kennedy didn't like him, and had no idea who _D'Antonio_ was. But what the hell kind of name was that? He sounded like a prick.

"It **was** a beautiful home," the stranger continued, his voice had a faint inflection of an accent Kennedy couldn't place. "Much more beautiful than _this…"_

 _Much more beautiful,_ Kennedy mocked with a scrunched, sour expression in the darkness. _God, he wished this man would shut up._

"John?" the man sighed, annoyed. Kennedy shifted, popping his neck.

 _Why was he still talking?_

"I promise a swift end. You won't feel a thing."

The door to Kennedy's left kicked open. A unified rattle of raised guns followed as the door swung, disturbing settled dust in the flooding headlights.

The Ranger did not flinch. His heart did not race, but his eyes did narrow a bit.

A shadow stretched across the concrete, telling Kennedy a plethora of information; his hands were empty, but that didn't mean he wasn't armed. He was also confident, standing fully erect and relaxed.

"I know you're in there, John," said the man. "You can't hide forever."

Kennedy watched the shadow reach into itself. The arms did not return to his side; he was armed now.

Pressing his back against the cold metal surface, Kennedy held his breath, waiting for the right moment to present itself.

The shadow compressed as he closed in. _His hands then the barrel, and then the gun._ The man came through the doorway, one careful step at a time.

Kennedy lunged.

Detaching from the thick shadows like a colossal beast, he wrapped an arm around the man's low-ready, capturing both arms. He surged forward, pulling both himself and his victim out of the truck's headlights and immersing them into the shadows. The man shouted as Kennedy thrust his wrist, freeing the pistol while cracking bones and a howl filled the silo.

Using his own mass, Kennedy pivoted, slinging the man against the concrete while snatching up the discarded weapon.

The man hit the floor and Kennedy stepped back into the thick darkness, pocketing the weapon.

Ayrie and McKinley reached the edges from both sides. They came at an angle, forming a funnel towards their suspect and their vehicle with their back to the silo. This ensured no cross fire passed through the stalks and turned friendly. With the headlights provided, there was a clear view of six culprits. In unison, they pushed away their night optics.

Then opened fired.

Bullets flew. Windows shattered. A man's hand blew off. Another round ate through the jaw bone. Bright red blood spewed through the night air, captured by the harsh headlights as the blindsided men fell.

Inside, Kennedy pulled his Warthog free, blade facing out, scraping its hair raising way as he traced the innards of the silo. Outside exploded in a cacophony of gunfire; Ayrie and McKinley had arrived.

The man was no longer composed. He was frightened. The ragged heaves as his lung worked in heavy panic allowed Kennedy to pin his whereabouts, even though he remained in the thick shadows.

"You're not John!" he choked, footsteps scuffing as he pulled himself to his feet. A crashing sound filled the space, reverberating off the metal walls and disorienting the intruder as he bumped into aluminum bins left behind. Mindful of the headlights that sliced through the center of the silo, Kennedy carefully moved closer towards his quarry, concealed within the oppressive darkness.

 _Pop! Pop!_

Until they went out.

The near-tangible darkness swallowed Kennedy and his new friend whole while outside erupted to a volley of gunfire.

* * *

 **small chapter. I know, not sorry! I wanted to get something out, even if it was just a little taste, so ya'll didn't think I gave up on the story or fell off into the deep end. My move is going great, thanks to those who asked.**

 **Kitana Mayo: Now that you say that, it makes sense. But that's also very silly for him to do that. In the script, Helen names the puppy Moose and when John steals the second dog, he names her Miko. Interesting, nonetheless!**

 **NotYourLoveMonkey: Did you! I'm flattered! I'm glad you like it so far!**

 **jayjay0815: Haha! I finally got an email alerting me of your review! They must be listening to us O_O;**

 **Holly: I miss you!**

 **Sylarfan: Thank you very much :D**

 **Inkandtrees: Very true! I like to know what they're thinking. There's a hundred things going on in someones head. Sights, sounds, smells, their own thoughts.**

 **SuperSaiyanKnight: Thank you for the message regarding FFA!**

 **Guest(s): Nope! This is NOT the end! We still have mo' blood to spill...**


	23. Chapter 23

***chapter contains excessive gore***

* * *

 _Every ending had a beginning._

 _Wrapped in his somber thoughts, John did not feel the bitter cold biting through his clothes nor its harsh kiss against his face. He walked with numb clarity._

 _Keen eyes swept to and fro through the thick fog that surrounded and smothered his whereabouts. The city's muted lights illuminated the Brooklyn Bridge and skyscrapers just beyond the Hudson River. Ghostly halos encircled the streetlights through the dense fog as he moved methodically, every step a calculating staccato in the heavy silence. He was thinking back to the beginning, to everything, and everyone, friends and enemies. He could count on one hand those he called 'allies'. Of course, there were not many._

 _Though one did not speak often, John keenly felt Marcus' absence after Viggo exacted his retribution. There was still a very cold, residual anger wrapped around his chest when he thought back, when he remembered the details that led up to his death._

 _Marcus had many opportunities to end Wick's life. He was the only man who could get close enough. But amidst those endless opportunities, reemerging from his own retirement, killing John was not something Marcus could do. In turn, a trust was established, whether John admitted it or not, but that, too, was short-lived._

 _John frowned when he realized he was no longer alone on his midnight walkabout. Stopping mid-stride, he regarded the materialized shadow before him._

 _Standing at the railing beneath the bridge on the otherwise deserted boardwalk, was another dark figure. Warily, John changed his heading, steering clear and giving wide berth to avoid any interaction._ _He continued along, tension building his shoulders as he moved past. Keeping the figure in his sights, he realized there was something . . . familiar, and his steps slowed until they stopped. John looked over his shoulder, staring quizzically._ _There was confusion at first, yet John was cautiously hopeful, somewhat daring to believe Marcus was somehow inexplicably alive and well before him._

" _What are you really doing here, Marcus?" He whispered into the fog. The stranger heard him and turned._ _The older man sighed, rising from his slouched posture against the railing before turning and replying._

" _Just checkin' up on an old friend." Marcus replied. A black umbrella crowned around his head and shoulders._

 _John blinked. A tide of apprehension washed over him, before it receded to an ugly recollection no longer suppressed. A familiar pain; the memory, though not exact, was an awful one._

 _An exchange of bitter smiles between two men long passed their tenure._

" _I'm sorry—" John began, as the dark overcast opened into a gentle rainfall. The umbrella lifted, hovering over John, shielding him and filling his ears with the soft percussion as it hit. Studying the younger man before him, the older Assassin noted John's sorrow-filled eyes and anguished expression . . . seeking absolution._

" _Don't blame yourself." Marcus gruffly assured. A lingering sadness remained in the older man's eyes as he spoke. "There's no rhyme or reason to this life." His thin lips twisted into a faint smile as he laid a calloused hand on John's shoulder. Despite Marcus' words, the grief remained._

" _You look terrible." John observed when he could speak again. His gaze lingered over the craggy face that was a portrait of weariness and a hard life riddled with loss. John wondered if his expression bore the same abuse. Though, they were not close in age, John was no longer a young buck himself._

" _I look retired." Marcus retorted, before falling silent. "What are you doing here, John? You made a new life ... find your way back to it." His hand squeezed John's shoulder reassuringly. "It's time to go home."_

" _Home?" John murmured to himself, confused. His home had been destroyed. Save for his dog, his salvaged war chest, and most recently, his car—John had nothing, and . . . no one._

 _He looked up to find Marcus gone. His query fallen upon deaf ears. Soon, his old friend faded into the fog._

 _He glanced around, unable to see the city, its lights, or the retreating figure of his dear friend._

 _He was alone again, except someone was―_

 _John looked down at the hand wrapped in his, following the lithe arm up, past the tumble of dark hair falling over her slender shoulders, into Logan's eyes._

" _What are you doing, John?" she asked. Her voice, but not her words, kicked started his dormant heart._

" _Looking at you." He replied with astonishing clockwork._

 _Logan smiled up at him, tightening the hold within his hand. In his chest, his fortified heart cracked a little as he pulled her closer._

 _A sound alerted Logan as she stared expectantly into the fog. Following her gaze, John peered into the shrouding mists. Faintly, he heard it too. Certain he imagined it, he listened more intently._

 _Peals of laughter drifted behind his line of sight while the fog slowly dissipated. The joyful sound grew louder and closer. Unseen, tiny carillons of laughter danced on the fringes of the eerie gray veil._

 _Gradually, the miasma lifted, revealing its little contents; children._

 _They stopped mid- play unaware of their audience. John could clearly see before him the boy and girl—twins, with dark crowns of hair. The boy took his sister's hand and pulled her close. Cupping his hand beside his mouth, the boy whispered into his sister's ear. Their mischievous gray eyes looked between the adults before fixing intently on John. The girl giggled delightedly and nodded her head._

 _In tandem and with the sudden burst of energy, they raced towards them. Their little arms flailing at their sides, shrieking giddily while they flung themselves into John's embrace._

" _Daddy!"_

John opened his eyes.

"Daddy!" A little girl's voice drifted down the hall; the culprit to his bizarre dream.

The drapes were opened, allowing harsh morning light to pool in and heighten the pain behind his eyes.

Waking gently, John lifted his head up and squinted around the room. Gathering his thoughts and last recollections, mouth foul tasting from the previous night's tonics, he recalled the gyrating crowd he shoved through in search of Logan. _Focused, hunting, determined._ He scoured the block until finding her at _Mad Dog's British Pub._ The sea of patrons was dense but despite this, maneuvering the pub posed no issue. He found her lingering at the entrance, bumped into him even, but he kept moving. Drink in hand to blend in, far too well dressed and groomed to be in such an establishment. His attire caught several side glances from the female sex and comments but none were deemed dangerous or of ill-intent. When he found a table, from there he watched and waited. Logan was uncomfortable in the crowd. It was written all over her face, but she managed as best as she could. Drinking until she was comfortable, wandering out onto the dance floor with another man. John remembered he downed his first drink in a single pull, immediately ordered another. Why?

Why?

He didn't know the answer but his eyes never strayed from her. He knew every spot her dancer partner touched her. How long his hands lingered, every inch of her pressed against the stranger. His second drink was gone, then a third, and then she was moving across the dancer floor towards the bathroom, and someone was following close behind.

His gaze lowered to the woman beside him. Tucked snugged against his frame, Logan's hair was mussed and tangled. It spread fanned out like spilled ink and she was completely naked; so was he. He hadn't imagined it. The bed sheets were tangled between them and…

 _Blood?_

John jarred awake, disturbing the slumbering woman in his embrace. His head swam from last night's intoxicants as he looked her over, ignoring how the light felt harsh against his eyes. She shifted slightly, only to sigh and turn over onto her back.

"Logan," his morning voice croaked. He didn't want to sound alarmed.

Thick lashes eased open and her drowsy gaze peered up at him.

"Hmm?" she grunted sleepily.

Reading the urgency on his face, she pulled back from him and blinked, eyes alert and wide, "What's wrong?"

Following his gaze, she looked down, _feeling_ what he felt and what he saw. Her thighs and John's pelvic region were covered with smears of encrusted blood. More blood blotted the hotel's white sheets in alarming contrast, making it appear more startling than it should be.

"Oh my God," she gasped, jerking upright, frantically pawing at the sheets and her legs. "Oh fuck.."

Throwing the sheets aside, Logan hauled herself out of bed and hurried for the bathroom.

The door slammed and John was left to stare at the folds of white sheets and red stains in silence.

 _He had no idea…._

But then... _why_ would she tell him?

Long before they stumbled through the door, both polluted in mind, John wanted her. He'd been wanting Logan. Badly. Last night, there had been no avoiding it. John had already sifted through the numbed guilt, accepted his weakened inhibitions, and thus his desperate need and pent up desire exploded to the forefront of his mind. He knew what she liked, to be roughed up, pinned down and dominated. He could be that for her, that release she sought. And Logan could be his.

Their relationship was anything _but_ casual; it was many things. Now, it was contorted, wrong, hard to read, and difficult to define, much less label.

 _Wrong?_ He tried a different word. It was _dangerous,_ because Logan was nothing like Helen, who was gentle and sweet. Logan was aggressive and stoic, constantly switching between wanting him and avoiding him, as if she couldn't make up her mind. Now that both their lives were on the line, one or the other would eventually kill her.

John reached down, pulling the covers away. He found his boxers and donned them quickly, then crossed the room towards the closed door where he listened.

Inside the bathroom, Logan stared at the smeared, dried mess across her thighs, instinctively knowing the state between her legs as she sat on the toilet. Unsure where to put her trembling hands, they hovered over her quivering thighs as she worked through her tumultuous thoughts.

It wasn't her first time seeing blood, but _this_ was much different - because it was ... _unexpected_. Logan wasn't mortally wounded. There were no cuts or injuries. It was startling because it was _her_ blood that she wasn't prepared to see. It was extraordinary, yet regardless, Logan knew these things happened; when becoming intimate for the first time...sometimes _things happen._

 _She knew._

It wasn't an earth shattering discovery.

 _She knew!_

But why was she so scared? Why did _this,_ of all things, startle her?

Logan reflected to the night before. How John's hands gripped her thighs and his mouth scoured her throat. In her chest, her heart thrummed. Was she scared because it was with _John?_ _Because he did this to her?_

 _That was the point!_ She scolded herself internally. There was no love for or from John. She could have what she wanted from him without any emotional upheaval or frivolous courtship. No strings attached. It was primitive and crass

Logan thought back to her father, their talks, and how embarrassed she felt sitting in the living room, and to his credit, he managed to explain the fundamentals of what a man and woman who love each other do, the terminology and mechanics of the physical act. What John and Logan did. Cauldron had fumbled and stammered an explanation, but Logan tried in earnest not to listen, to be anywhere else but _there_ and discussing _that._

Logan mentally scoffed and always tuned her mother out, as Jennifer explained to her daughter the finer details of love, the complex and abstract range of emotions that accompanied a romantic relationship. Logan did not listen to her mother. It was useless; the suitors who presented themselves unfailingly proved that Logan was merely the means to a lucrative end. It was natural, she told herself, and not a cause for alarm. She was a woman, and had been for some time.

"Take it easy…," she whispered to herself.

Dropping her hands, Logan shakily drew a steady breath just as the bathroom door eased open.

Logan immediately bowed her head as she crossed her legs; instinctively, she shielded her chest. The man had already seen her fully exposed, had been inside her, kissed every inch of her, yet she couldn't stop how vulnerable she felt while entirely naked before him.

John closed the door and knelt down before her.

Brushing away her mussed hair, he tilted her chin up and solemnly looked into her troubled eyes. He wiped away the tears she unknowingly shed with steady hands, while her heart leaped and thundered. The feelings were caught somewhere between hysteria, despair, uncertainty and an astonishingly intense longing for John to comfort her coming in fast.

He stood, pulling her with him, and pushed the shower curtain back. Taking two towels from the shelves, he set them aside and removed his boxers. They both stepped into the falling stream.

He pulled her close, turning so that he took the brunt of the water with his shoulder and the runoff cascaded between their chests.

At their feet, the tinged water spiraled down the drain.

* * *

The Texas sun blazed high and unforgiving in the clear, cloudless sky when John and Logan checked out of the Menger Hotel. Stepping outside, in mutual silence, they strode past the Häagen Dazs ice cream shop, skirting the growing line of sweating patrons seeking relief from the sun. The Menger's bar and the _Alamo_ fell into the background, as they headed for the valet parking where a white Corvette and a black Mustang awaited them.

The young valets exchanged curious glances as John continued towards his vehicle and Logan sank into hers.

Both engines roared to life, filling the parking garage with their powerful, resonating purrs. John pulled out first while Logan wrestled her shoes off and tossed them into the passenger's floorboard. She was not far behind as they headed west for Comfort, Texas.

To Logan's surprise, John did not speed. With long stretches of open road before them, the hills and bends offered perfect hiding places for lurking police cars. She was certain that was the reason for their law-abiding pace, which was driving her mad. In under an hour, they reached Comfort's city limits. It'd been quite some time since Logan had a night to herself, if one would even consider it such. But now she was very eager to get home and not just remove her uncomfortable dress. Her phone was dead, her stomach was nauseatingly empty, and she had a pounding headache ―fitting consequences of her questionable escapades from the night before. Not to mention, her mind kept drifting back to all the blood she woke up in and flaming her cheeks with embarrassment.

As John entered the access code, to Logan, it felt an eternity had passed before the wrought iron gates opened wide enough for the vehicles to pull through. At last, she could see her home ahead and...something indistinguishable at the doorstep large enough to be seen from the property gate.

 _A box?_

It was too large to being anything Cauldron ordered, unless he ordered a rocket launcher, or a turret. But why deliver it _here_ and not Kennedy's store and leave such item for the world to see? Why didn't he take it inside? Logan never offered the gate code to any postal service. Unless Caldron had escorted them onto the property and, out of laziness, left the parcel at the door step. With the aid of the headache, she felt herself getting frustrated.

The Mustang swept across the driveway and parked. Logan pulled up behind John, parked and quickly got out. John, who had seen it too, emerged from his vehicle, peering intently over the hood towards the large, rectangular item.

Logan moved around her car, leaving the driver's door wide open. She paused briefly, uncertain; the shift in the air came with unnatural stillness. No birds sang, no wind ushered her along … something was terribly awry. Craning her head back, she looked up to see several buzzards slowly circling overhead. She looked back towards the box and then again towards the birds. Apprehension was on the rise.

Settling her gaze onto the package, the lid sat askew, the wooden edges stained an unmistakable, brownish- red hue that left her with more dread than curiosity. Scuffs and jutting splinters marred the flat surfaces, as if it'd been tossed aside or kicked out of a moving vehicle. There were gathering indications a common postal service did not deliver this over sized item.

Glancing at her, John knew her intentions.

"Logan," he warned as she stepped forward.

It didn't matter, Logan had to know what was in the box.

John came around her vehicle in two strides and intercepted her. Logan eluded his efforts. She darted around, faster now―absolutely certain there was something terrible inside the package. John caught her upper arm which she yanked free from, stumbling forth.

The overwhelming smell hit her as she neared. Her fears worsened and her heart lurched into her throat, clawing its frenetic path towards her throat. She wanted to gag, to step away and cover her nose, but the growing, consuming dread compelled her, luring her towards the ominous package that may have been rigged with explosives or a pressurized, corrosive poison.

It didn't matter.

She had to see.

The frantic questions thrashed around in her head, screamed her worst fears, putting people she loved and cherished into places they shouldn't be.

When she reached the box and fell to her knees, with strength born of fear, Logan pushed against the heavy lid. Her head throbbed in tandem of her heart. The heat, the stench, the effort. She tried to hold her breath, to not breathe in the assaulting fetor of decay baking in the Texas heat as the lid fell aside. When it hit against the concrete, no longer contained, the smell was unbearable.

Logan lurched back, covering her mouth as her body dry heaved while the scene before her unfolded.

She could feel John grabbing her, trying to haul her to her feet as her eyes scoured over the gruesome contents within.

 _Body parts._

A pair of severed legs cut unevenly at the knees and hips, arms from shoulder to wrist, but no hands. Where were the hands? _Her_ hands. Dirt and bracken clumped together from the spilled blood suggested _she_ was murdered, dismembered ... hacked apart, and then delivered as a grisly package. Long sweeps of dark brown hair obscured the corpse's face as they laid unnaturally twisted and mangled in their final resting place. The matted hair followed stickily against her pale body like old cobwebs, resting lifelessly against what was once a person, a living being.

More importantly, the hair.

Dark hair Logan was very familiar with.

Too much like her own.

The odds were against her now, inevitably.

She reached forward and gently brushed aside a clumped tendril, stiff from dirt and blood.

That was enough, she knew the answer, but kept going until she had cleaned away the dirt, blood and hair from her mother's face.

* * *

 **hello again! i hope y'alls weekend is sunny and nice! It's HOT here in Texas.**

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 **Also, thanks for the messages in regards to FFA and myself. Comments, concerns, and questions you may have about the story or myself can be answered more promptly via messages. I do tend to respond to reviews at the end of chapters but in case you don't want to wait that long, you can always send me a PM. Thanks for reading everyone!**


	24. Chapter 24

_We are all evil in some form or another._

-Richard Ramirez, The Night Stalker

* * *

Her mother was buried.

Hours later, submerged from the waist down in her bathtub, Logan sat still fully dressed but barefooted. Her soot coated feet and hands soaked and her dress was completely ruined from her earlier efforts. Along the counter was her cell phone she'd used to call Caldron again and again until he finally answered. It took over a dozen calls before he finally picked up, barking " _I'm busy, Logan!_ " Decidedly upset about her nuisance.

She hung up before he could.

These transgressions were meaningless. At least _they_ hadn't claimed Caldron yet. That gave her some mild comfort.

Outside, beneath a shady mesquite tree, Logan had carved a hole into the ground for the remains of her mother. Still, her hands were missing. The box had also been disposed of with the help of John. In truth, she found it too disturbingly intimate of an act - to bury her mother alongside John Wick, who seemed a stranger now more than ever. John and her mother had never met, so why make him endure the heat, the smell, or the labor? Now that she considered it, there weren't many ways he could relate to her despair. Though, if he did, John gave no indication, and Logan felt entirely alone in the matter. She was alright with that.

Despite his offer to assist Logan with the burial, she assigned him to the box and they went their separate ways.

As she dug, she considered:

Involving the police was out of the question. No amount of forensic traces or judicial intervention could restore her mother. Furthermore, that would only shed light on the shadow that was John Wick, which was opposite of her intentions. Keeping Mr. Wick hidden from the public eye had been the initial priority. If they _were_ notified, not only it would be time consuming, but an exhausting endeavor, an exercise in futility. Besides, Logan and John had their own skeletons to deal with; she'd blown a woman's brains out and nearly sawed another's head off. Where the repercussions were for both those transgressions, she didn't know. Both accounts seemed like lifetimes ago now. The bodies had, of course, been secreted away through one apparatus or another. No doubt the cops would scour her property as part of protocol. Then they'd find human remains, car carcasses scorched to ash. Discarded clothing, faulty weapons. Then the fresh grave that held the dismembered remains of Jennifer Lenore Ryder.

No plea for self defense could prevent her from seeing the wrong side of the bars.

With every hostile encounter, more blood stained the Ryder estate and with absolute certainty, it would continue, until every life with the audacity to stand between John Wick and the incoming fury had been claimed.

 _All for one man..._

Logan scoffed. The sound accompanied the rippling, once clear water, now murky and clouded with a mixture of sweat, dirt, and someone else's blood. Perhaps if she avoided the word _mother_ or _Jennifer,_ she could dissociate from it. But such a lie could only last so long. If there were tears for Logan to shed, they hadn't arrived. She wasn't sure if she should be relieved or concerned.

For once, she wanted to embrace whatever emotional purge she could conjure. All the anguish and despair now lodged in her chest like an embedded bullet. The unanswered questions, the lingering "why's" and "what ifs?" were forever lost to the grave. Logan would never know why her mother never contacted her or why their relationship was so estranged. Had she done something? Was she not the daughter Jennifer had envisioned? A prick of pain stabbed her heart and Logan waited, braced for the tears.

Nothing came.

The choking bitterness had taken refuge in her lungs, leaving very little room to breathe. She couldn't think or recollect fond memories, much less cherish what little time she had with her mother. Only the anger and resentment remained like the sharp, metallic tang of blood along the tongue.

 **Getting even...**

In utter silence, Logan contemplated. She had the weapons, the ammo, and now the single-minded determination. Getting to her destination was far more complicated than just _showing up, guns ablazing._ What exactly was she dealing with? Who was her target? Where was she going? How would she find them?

The details were surmounting, but even still...

Something _must_ be done; somewhere, someone knew _something._ Surely there was someone who could give Logan the answers she sought. Her mother's death indicated _They_ were still after John. This was merely a warning, a ruthlessly savage harbinger, and meant for all who dare aid John Wick to heed, or _else_ ...

 _Who would be next if John Wick was not handed over?_

 _Her father?_

The thought alone elicited a catalytic response. Her body started to shake with the thought of losing her father.

 _Absolutely not._

No one would come near her father so long as Logan breathed.

Today, she had buried her mother like carrion. There was no prayer or moment on silence. Just the _shink_ report each time she drove the shovel into the earth. No mercy or consideration. She was a mere pawn they mutilated―an exclamation point to a message and Logan treated her as such.

 _ **Hand him over.**_ _.._

Though it was quite clear what they wanted, Logan intended otherwise. If anything, it elicited a far more sinister and calculated response.

Simmering beneath the quiet surface, keeping all other emotions staunched, was a seething wrath.

Getting her pound of flesh back, and settling the score involved tearing through _them_ if it meant with her bare hands. Vengeance sat at the forefront of her thoughts. No one was safe from her.

She'd kill them.

 _All_ of them.

 _Whoever_ they were, _wherever_ they were, she'd find them and tear out their throats, paint their lives in the same shade of red as they did to hers. Every single one of them would fall before they got to her father. If her mother's murder was their attempt to frighten and break her, to make her hand John over, then she had to do the opposite.

The fact of the matter was the fight was hitting closer and closer to home. The feeling of being cornered sat on her shoulders and back and she was running out of ideas. They couldn't wait in Comfort any longer. How they managed to last this long was mystery itself.

Looking around, the water had grown cold once Logan came out of her thoughts.

How long had she sat here? Where was John?

 _Why did she care where John was?_ She didn't, at least, she assured herself she didn't.

Every ending had a beginning. Jennifer Ryder's unexpected and vicious end began in New York. Something would be done and now that Logan could see no one around her could provide the right answers, she'd hunt for them instead.

* * *

On the far side of her bed, hidden from view of the doorway, Logan neatly positioned her luggage; two suitcases. As far as clothing went, she had to go light on the weight and _dark_ on the color. She allotted herself three days to complete the objective. Three days max.

After hours of consideration, flying to New York with a plethora of weapons would only landed her in the hands of TSA and on the no fly list. Possibly place her under a more ominous radar. Her rank would also be questioned and her psyche, which would ground her from flights indefinitely. But her job was not the only thing at stake or in question. _They_ knew her mother's name, which in turn, meant they knew Caldron and, of course, would lead them to John Wick. _How much time did they have left? Would there be many? Were they already on their way? What could she tell her father?_

The perpetrators had access to her property, she knew. So nowhere was safe. They both needed to leave. John could go to Caldron's, she figured.

 _Speaking of which…_

She tossed in the last remaining items and zipped up her suitcase before heading downstairs.

John was sitting in the living room, without a drink or magazine, or a book, just sitting quietly. When he glanced up, she spoke.

"Do not tell Caldron," she stated simply. "I don't want him to know. Not yet."

John's brow furrowed as he considered the odd request. She could hear the queries amidst the silence, see them in his dark eyes as he gazed up at her so she continued.

"If he does find out before I tell him," she paused, searching for the words. "We won't be able to control his next move. For his own safety, it's best we keep this between us." Even to her own ears, Logan didn't sound or feel like herself. Perhaps that was also for the best. Logan gauged John's reaction as the words settled between them. He wasn't phased or confused in the slightest which made her wonder if he knew something she didn't.

Caldron possessed a savagely explosive anger. When triggered, that same volatility and determination―focused and channeled―could be advantageous. Because it involved someone Caldron loved, Logan fully knew he would put himself at risk in the haphazard fashion, which she intended to prevent at all costs. The entirely incentive was to remove the heat from her homestead and family, away from Wick, even. Caldron would bring it to New York in a hand basket. If Logan _could_ get to New York and settle the score herself, _then_ she could share the awful news to Caldron, and they could mourn her mother's passing, safely and together … and perhaps give her mother a proper deaths. The dirty work; it would be finished and Logan could leave everything behind.

John, Caldron, _everyone_.

This was not the life she chose to live, but she intended to do with it what she could, to focus on nothing else, until she achieved her objective.

Logically, rationally―John had no control over what happened to her mother. Emotionally, Logan couldn't help but blame him. If John _wasn't_ John, if he hadn't come crashing into her life, bleeding and dying … touching her in ways she'd never experienced, she would still have her mother, estranged but alive nonetheless. Instead, she had these tumultuous feelings of anxiety and regret that ate away at her like a ravenous parasite. She'd let John get too close. She'd let everyone get too close. And now she paid the price, her _mother_ paid the price.

Fear of losing another lit the proverbial fire.

Waiting was no longer an option.

Logan turned away and headed back upstairs.

* * *

 **short, but it got the point across.**

 **Starcrier: Thank you!**

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	25. Chapter 25

_Oh fallen angel of the night_

 _Just take my heart, just rip it out.._

 _This holy skin..._

 _Is for you now_

 ** _*chapter contains sexuality*_**

* * *

Nightfall came quickly―too quickly.

Logan dreaded what was soon to come. With dismay, she watched how eagerly the sun fell beneath the horizon and how quickly the bright moon awaited her in a clear, starry sky. She tried to sleep, but no avail.

Naturally her last night, unlike John's, would not be heralded in by a storm. There were no ominous clouds blanketing the sky, nor the prattling of rain pelting the roof and running rivulets across the thick windows.

 _It was time to go._

An old, nondescript '93 Ford F-150 would be her transportation. Reliable, low profile, and painted an ugly maroon, it possessed a sizable, aluminum tool box that could be locked; the perfect, secure place to stash her arsenal.

With her remaining duffel bags in hand, Logan stealthily padded downstairs toward the safe room. Her father still didn't know, but that was only a matter of time.

Despite her silent footsteps, the wooden floors creaked and groaned beneath her weight, and the keypad screeched as she punched in the code. The tumblers disengaged. Gripping the knob firmly, she turned it, and the solid deadbolts slid back into their housings with a hollow report that resonated throughout the quiet home.

Flinching, Logan glanced up the stairway. Surely that had awakened John, at the very least, his damn dog.

Holding her breath, she strained her ears, listening intently for a bed groaning, a door unlatching, or footsteps, a canine whine - anything...

But only silence greeted her.

Relieved, she pushed the heavy vault door wide enough to slip through with her duffel bags in tow.

Logan meticulously ransacked the vault. Grabbing every weapon available would be unwise and impractical. A sturdy rifle, maybe even two, and at most, four handguns would suffice. She gathered every pistol and rifle with a threaded barrel, several suppressors, flash lights that could attach to railings, and enough ammunition to last her the first 48 hours of an apocalypse. In truth, she had no idea what she was getting into. Logan's immediate, short term goal was reaching New York; after that, she would improvise as the _situation_ required. If John's plight began in the city, that's where it should end. The details should, she desperately hoped, fall into place. The mere thought of the bustling, densely-congested city had Logan second guessing her current ammo capacity.

 _Is there ever such thing as too much ammo?_ She wondered, grabbing two boxes of MREs. Logan was about to place them by the neatly stacked arsenal and return to grab more ammo cans, when something caught her eye.

Silhouetted against the ominous red lighting the vault possessed, was a figure; the Devil Himself.

Silently startled, Logan flinched while simultaneously dropping the boxes.

Even in the lurid red glow that encompassed their vision, Logan knew it was John. The man had the remarkable, unsettling ability to move about like a phantom.

"Why are you here?" she breathed quietly, certain he could hear her thundering heart.

John reached over and flipped on a workbench lamp. The harsh fluorescence battled against red illumination.

He held her wary gaze with an animal directness and said, "What are _you_ doing, Logan."

It wasn't a question; John knew the answer.

"Reorganizing," she lied, feeling her anger flare in defense. John was not her boss and she did not answer to him; he did not pay for any bills or utilities, much less have the right to question _any_ of Logan's actions.

He'd saved her, Logan tried reminding herself. There was a bitter regard towards San Antonio and his timely intervention, but her anger would not abate. It required a great amount of willpower not to lash out at him, as well. The dim lighting of the vault room made her feel concealed, as if the shadows obscured how ugly she felt and how peculiar she was behaving. In the shadows, _you could be anyone you want._

Flexing her jaw, Logan waited in vain. Her furious disposition festered and spread, warming her chest and her face, drawing her hands into tightly clenched fists. This had nothing to do with John; ironically, it also had _everything_ to do with him. This objective was for Logan, and Logan alone; John bridged everything―from the unrelenting attacks, to her mother's death―none of it would have happened had he not arrived. Since he entered her life, John had … done _enough_. Now her family was dying, arriving in _pieces_ in a box. It should be John slipping away in the still of the night, with weapons in tow and thirsting for blood. Instead, it was Logan.

For a heavy moment, she hated him.

"You can't do this," he stated evenly, " _You'll die."_

There was too much certainty in his voice to feign indifference. However, revenge was reflexive. He, of all people, knew that.

"That's fine," she spat, before bending down to retrieve the dropped boxes. Moving around him, she laid them aside and then turned for the duffels filled with her choice or rifles, pistols, knives, and grenades.

And most importantly, thick stacks of untraceable cash to fund her suicide mission.

John caught her arm as she passed him. The grip was firm, too firm. It began to hurt; an unmistakable warning.

"Let," Logan seethed through gritted teeth, "Go."

He silently refused, and she yanked against his grip, but was still unable to free herself; it became a battle of wills. Logan's training kicked in―feet pivoting, body twisting and suddenly―she was free, grabbing up the two heavy bags and bolting towards the door. Logan barely reached the top of the stairs when John caught her. She dropped one bag to free a hand, to ward him off. Instead, she lost both of them as John seized her arms. He rushed forward, and they emerged from the stairs. John effortlessly maneuvered Logan's smaller frame, until her back met the wall; the sudden, jarring impact ignited an explosive reaction.

She swung a knee up, aiming for his groin, but met only air. Wrenching her wrists free, Logan threw fists and elbows in a dizzying flurry, only to have John effortlessly counter her blows with his own as he swatted hers aside. He blocked her punches, and eventually, spun her around. Logan's arms were caught a second time. Immobilized, her face pressed against the wall; she could feel the sweat from her brow and cheek between the surfaces.

"Logan, stop." John growled near her ear. He pressed up against her, anchoring her in place before he freed her hand and twisted the other upward until her knuckles brushed between her shoulder blades. Logan tried to push off with her other hand, but stopped as an intense spike of pain shot through her pinned arm. Panting heavily, her body was aflame from anger, resentment, bloodthirst, and now... _something else._

Squeezing her eyes shut, Logan gritted her teeth and desperately struggled against John's tenacious hold, in an attempt to stave her _treacherous_ body's reaction to his strength and prowess.

Why was this happening to her? Was something wrong? Was she broken?

She yelped, stifling the noise with a curse as quickly as she could. A different fire burned into her belly, and each passing second pressed against John stoked the flames. Logan spent years fine tuning her hand-to-hand combat skills and sharpening her gunslinging techniques, convinced doing so proved her worth to Cauldron, and would secure his love and approval. In reality, they were excuses―masking the fact Logan was crumbling from the inside, and yearning for something unnamed to fill the gnawing void.

Between anger and arousal, she couldn't decide which beast to feed.

Perched on her tiptoes to alleviate the pain in her shoulder, she rolled back onto her heels, pressing her backside into John.

 _She was broken._

She was _sick._ Even though instincts told her exactly what she wanted to hear; _this is you._

John's dramatic entrance was merely a catalyst, blasting open the long sealed chamber of her deepest fears and darkest desires. Then there was the coalescing of it all and, like the tide, there was no stopping it. The changes within her were happening terrifyingly fast. Ever since he arrived, before Logan could prevent it, or mentally process it, she became someone she did not recognize, and she could no longer differentiate between love and hate, heaven or hell.

These people, her family, she cared for them and now they were dying. But unlike the tide, she had control of who the next victim would be and it would _not_ be Caldron or John; this much she was certain.

Logan let them all get too close and now the Ryder death toll was on the rise. The only way to avoid further heartache and loss was to handle matters herself―to distract and redirect the menace upon them, if possible. If not, then she would meet the furious onslaught with extreme prejudice; if forfeiting her life was required to preserve her father's, then she would gladly do so … if she survived, then so be it.

John's deep voice warned again, "Logan, don't do this." It was too late to start over now. No one could run from this.

Without heeding to his warning, she palmed the cold surface of the wall with her free hand as she deliberately and provocatively moved against him. She hated herself for it. She hated John Wick, too.

She waited for him to pull away, to rebuke her for her actions, but he did not.

There was no time for second thoughts, if what she felt was right or wrong, love or hate. It didn't matter. Time was never on her side. She wanted him, and would have him, then it was time to leave. Whatever lie he wished to hear, whatever promises he wanted her to make, she'd make them. _She would be who he wanted her to be._

John released her arm. His hands came down and gripped her hips, squeezing them as she rubbed her rump against his groin. It was consuming him, too. His body was responding to hers. He slid his hands beneath her shirt, running calloused palms along her back, around her rib cage, he held her tightly against him, slipping a hand beneath the fabric of her bra. She arched into his warm touch when he gently kneaded and cupped her breasts.

John flicked open the button of her shorts with his thumb and slid them down to her feet. He turned her around, and pulled her up by the waist, before pinning her against the wall. Like a melody, expected and natural, her legs wrapped around his hips as he freed himself from his shorts.

Pushing aside the crotch of her panties, he stroked her swollen nub as he centered himself, and entered her right there in the hallway. He drove into her gently, allowing her body to adjust to his girth as they kissed. Touched by his thoughtful consideration, it was unnecessary, for Logan's body was ready and her warm, wet folds eagerly received him. Logan wrapped her arms around John's solid shoulders while he held her up firmly by the rump. Their lips met in a heated kiss, lapping and nipping soft, tender flesh, sharing the same breath and passion that had always been there, in one fashion or another. Gasping between their lips, feeling breathless and lightheaded, she tipped her head back, inviting him explore with his mouth and tongue. He kissed her throat and tasted her pulse before resting his head between the crook of her neck and shoulder. The coarse sensation of his beard against her skin only added to the sensory overload. She was drowning in it. The rich scent of his carbon black hair engulfed her; jet black like his beard, his eyes, and his heart―a living shadow. Like in the belly of her house, Logan felt like she could be anyone when she was with **John Wick**.

She gripped his broad shoulders while he worked his hips against her. The well-defined trapezius and deltoids under her palms growing hot beneath his cotton shirt. His thrusts were no longer rhythmic and fell in and out of pattern, slowing down as he tried prolonging their heated moment.

Between each ragged breath, Logan tried breathing around the suffocating pleasure. Their scent filled her lungs, the sound of their passion flooded her ears like a symphony, heart pounding with the speed and ferocity of a war drum.

Finally, the surmounting climax swept through her and she cried out.

The air punched free from her lungs as John drove himself deeply, spilling inside her.

And for an even heavier moment, she loved him.

* * *

 **I hope everyone in Texas and southern parts of Louisiana are well after Hurricane/Tropical storm Harvey moved through. It's been a long weekend for me.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	26. Chapter 26

_She was not fragile like a flower;_

 _she was fragile like a bomb._

 ** _3.9k word count._**

* * *

John led Logan to his bed.

It was the first and unfortunately, she determined, would be the last. For now, she indulged in the warmth and overwhelming scent of him that surrounded her. It was in the sheets. It permeated the air. He was everywhere, against her body, filling her lungs with every breath, absorbed in her soft tissue. Beneath the blankets, their legs were tangled. Despite what felt like suffocation, she thrilled in the intimacy. Still, she feared at any moment the pressure would sweep her away into oblivion. _The view was indeed beautiful,_ _but there was always the fear of falling from the cliff._ A word drifted to and fro but no matter how incessant it seemed, it could _not, would not_ define her. _It_ did not control her. _It_ drove people away. _It_ sapped away self _and_ sanity; Logan had not once considered herself _broken_ or _wrong_ before John arrived. Normal people explored illnesses they knew they didn't have. There's safety in established knowledge.

Logan could never look up the word that defined her. The truth was too hard to swallow at times.

In the quiet darkness, she waited.

Once John's breathing deepened and his limbs slackened, Logan slipped out from the cage his arms formed and then quietly dressed. Heading to her bedroom, she grabbed her luggage and paused in the doorway, taking a moment to soak in her decision.

The bed was made. The curtains were drawn open allowing the moonshine to bathe her bedroom in a spectral glow. Since she'd inherited the estate, she'd been the only person here for years, hardly sharing space with others. Though what little friends she conjured made their visits, those events only happened less than a handful of times.

Logan leaned against the door frame, appreciating what was likely the last moment she'd gaze upon her bedroom or reside in this house.

Her attention was drawn towards the nightstand, where it remained even after she discovered it: John's wedding ring. He never came for it, and she hadn't disturbed it. Staring at the small item, she wondered if, later down the road, it would prove useful―as a reminder when she got off track, or ... a source of comfort, when she needed it.

Sitting the bags down, she grabbed a chain from her bathroom and came back. She slipped the ring onto the necklace and fastened it around her neck. The cold tungsten hung low against valley of her breast. Feeling it there―knowing it rested near her heart―truly did comfort her. She felt connected to him some how, like it belonged to her―like _he_ belonged to her. What to do with such a discovery was unknown at the time, so she buried it. If she ignored it, perhaps it would go away.

Whatever _it_ was, it _wasn't_ love. She couldn't stomach that.

Love favored a delicate woman who was refined, charismatic and adept in the art of charming those around her―like her mother. Love bestowed upon the paragon of woman a worthy counterpart―a man, strong and fearless―like her father. That was love, not … this.

 _This_ was **carnage**.

Once downstairs, Logan grabbed the remaining duffel bags at the top of the basement stairs, and then secured them into her truck's tool boxes. The old, maroon '93 Ford F-150, once her father's truck, was now hers. If she wanted to remain anonymous, the Corvette or any of Caldron's ostentatious toys must remain behind. The dilapidated truck would prevent her from speeding or placed in the backseat of a trooper's cruiser in handcuffs; no man, or woman had any business transporting assorted weapons and firearms across multiple state lines.

Not any good, well deserving, business at least.

Gingerly fastening the latches securing the tool boxes, Logan returned to collect the last of her belongings, and to lock the doors.

The MRE boxes remained at the vault entrance, where she dropped them after John's intervention. Restacking them, Logan knelt to hoist them up and spotted a trunk.

A nondescript, wooden trunk pushed against the wall beneath a work bench. Hidden deep within dense shadows cast by the glaring red interior lights, it didn't belong to her or her father. Though this was not Logan's first time seeing it―then she realized; it was the same trunk her father hauled inside the night John arrived. Initially, it's presence held no significance to her. Neither Cauldron or John spoke of it, and Logan had completely forgotten about it. Until now.

Reaching for it, she slid it out into view and investigated the edges. Nothing secured it closed, so she flipped it open. The first item she noticed was a Glock pistol, a model she wasn't familiar with. The slide was more aggressive than the models she recognized. Engraved, slimmer, more tactical.

She scrunched her nose with disdain. Despite its pleasing aesthetics, it was still a Glock. Interestingly, John's weapon of choice was hemmed in by vertical slots housing columns of bright, shiny coins, tinted red from the refracted vault light; curious, Logan ran her fingers down the cold pieces before plucking one up and examining it. Closer inspection revealed they were gold. Certainly the pieces were not of legal tender; the unfamiliar, foreign coinage was beyond her scope of exposure. A cursory glance failed to reveal any meaning regarding the blindfolded figure and laurels on one side, nor did the lion and shield depicted on the other. Logan's gut instinct spurred her need to leave quickly, and she absently pocketed the coin.

Eyeing the Glock with contempt one last time, she quickly closed the trunk and slid it back under the workbench. Perhaps Caldron knew what it all meant. She'd bring it up once she revealed it was time to find a new hideout for John Wick.

Carefully gathering the MRE boxes together, Logan quietly closed and locked the vault door. Tossing the boxes into the truck bed, with the keys gripped tightly in hand as dawn warmed the horizon, Logan glanced at her home one last time.

The doors were closed and secured, her home's interior dark and quiet―a calm and tranquil illusion. Wick was not safe. John and his dog could no longer stay here. Without raising suspicions, she would have to warn Caldron. Their next location must less obvious than a ranch home set on a precipice for the entire hill country to see. Perhaps a hotel, preferably one out of town.

Logan climbed into her truck; when the engine turned over, she pulled out of the driveway and drove through the open property gates, ceremoniously releasing Logan Ryder into the wild unknown.

Deep down, she feared she might never return to Texas. Maybe that was for the best.

Palming the backpack next to her on the truck bench, she retrieved her phone and called her father. It was a shot in the dark and almost ritualistic. Over the years, the vast majority of her calls were never answered.

It took three tries until he picked up.

"Is this an emergency?" His voice, deep and rough from sleep, cut through the static.

"Sort of," Logan replied, put off by his brusque response.

"Well, what is it now?" he grunted, shifting into a more comfortable position. "I'm doing what I can on my end. Kennedy and I are up to our necks with these damn thugs. Did something happen?"

A swarm of morbid images flashed across her memory. Logan put to rights what remained of Jennifer's dismembered body. Mechanically cleaning her mother's face, sifting through the fractured, severed limbs while the earth yawned open, ready to receive grisly offering. The numerous, cruel wounds Jennifer received were catalogued in her flesh, embedded with debris; adding insult to grievous, fatal injuries, Jennifer was covered with maggots. Detached was Logan's method of protection. Should her thoughts roam, fear and pain and blinding retribution would conquer her senses. The agony and vicious abuse Jennifer was subjected to and endured until death took the reins was unfathomable. Logan didn't want to think about that right now.

She knew she would never be able to scour the horrific memory from her mind's eye for the rest of her natural life. Her mother, once so vibrantly beautiful and alive, was tucked deep within the earth, beneath a blanket of loosely packed dirt.

Cringing, she cleared her throat. "No, not yet. But I think it's time we move him somewhere else."

Lifting her grey eyes to the rear view mirror, she expected to see a dark colored Mustang closing in on her six o'clock; there was nothing but dust billowing in her wake.

"What makes you say that?" Caldron's voice came again.

Logan blinked, feeling contested with her decision.

"What doesn't?" she spat, "It hasn't been safe there since the first intruder. It's time he's relocated or someone with enough balls will burn down my house."

In fact, it was shocking they hadn't done more. Despite the estate's remote location and technology, _They_ breached her property without triggering any of her sensors; what else could _they_ do and why hadn't _they_ already done so? Unless _they_ knew no one was home. If they destroyed the house, it meant John would have to go elsewhere, and thus have to search for him again. At least, with it still in tact, his return was guaranteed―however, short. This revelation unsettled her, especially with John still residing there.

Or was it because of something else? It didn't seem practical to come whatever distance they may without returning with their prize.

 _Unless they were scared..._

The line went quiet as Logan drove on, occasionally jostled by uneven road. Dirt and rocks pelted the sides of the cab as she traversed towards the highway.

"He can't stay there anymore," she resolved, "He needs to stay somewhere less obvious. Like a motel."

"No," Caldron interjected, "People are already staked out at those places. I've got eyes everywhere, Logan."

Flexing her jaw, Logan squeezed the steering wheel. If that were the case, she wouldn't have had to bury her mother.

The stacking transgressions were taking a toll on her bearing, making it difficult to keep her emotions in check. An emotional, physical, or even by spiritual catharsis. She didn't care, she just wanted some sort of release.

"Then what do you suggest?" she asked in clipped tones, rising in volume. "You want him to stay there and die? Because that's exactly what's going to happen, to both of us!" Her voice filled the cab suddenly, the anger she had been staving off coming to a head. Taking a deep breath, Logan relaxed. Appearing too concerned would raise Caldron's suspicions; or … it could distract him from her intended motive.

A long silence encompassed the father and daughter until finally...

"I guess I've gotta place," Caldron murmured, uncertainty tracing his voice. "It's nothing like the ranch house, but it'll do. He can stay here."

"Here?" she echoed, suddenly confused. "Where's ' _here'_?"

"Kennedy's," he said quickly, "I'll text you the address."

Logan hung up and pulled off to the side of the road. When the text message arrived, she entered the address and discovered Kennedy's home was a short distance away.

 _Odd,_ she thought, _he'd never once mentioned a second house or that it resided so close to hers._

But then again, years had gone by since they last saw each other. Time, among other things, changed people.

Furrowing her brow, she started the navigation and in minutes she was taking another dirt road between steep, craggy cliff faces, sharp inclined turns, and over a railroad track before rolling up to a worn down mobile home. Her father's large white diesel truck was the only vehicle parked out front.

Parking, she got out while Caldron emerged onto the porch in his boxers and an undershirt.

Slamming the truck door, she approached, gesturing towards the pale yellow trailer that bore no connection to the high maintenance, materialistic man that was Kennedy.

" _This_ is Kennedy's house?"

Caldron glanced back as if he had to make sure of it himself before answering, "Yeah."

She mounted the stairs, surprised. "Since when?"

Staring up towards her father, there was a rise and fall of his shoulders. He was breathless. She waited, expecting common courtesies exchanged between a father and daughter. But he did not come forth and hug her, ruffle her hair or tap her chin gently with his knuckle.

Still dressed in what appeared to be pajamas, Caldron pulled the screen door opened and gestured her inside.

"Since well, recently," he muttered as she walked past.

Entering, it took a moment for Logan's eyes to adjust to the darkness. Every blind was pulled down and the curtains were closed. Despite the ragged exterior, the dwelling was well furnished and tidy. Glancing about the room, she searched for more indicators that it _was_ Kennedy's estate. The man was an Army Ranger and he made sure the world knew. Whether that be a decorating shadow box, a United States Army flag or a regiment scroll patches strewn about; Kennedy made it no mystery.

"Let me put some clothes on." Caldron shut the door behind him and stepped around, heading for a hallway in the back left side of the living room.

Logan moved out of the way to further examine the home, as she wandered around, she asked, "Doesn't he live near San Antonio? With a successful business?" Kennedy had no shortage of money and never had made early mention of moving to Comfort. The town was too small compared to San Antonio.

Approaching several furnishings, she looked around for decorations, anything to entertain herself while she waited. But there were no picture frames or figurines. Nothing to tie together a home, which was unlike Kennedy.

Caldron spoke up from the back. "Yeah,...well, since this whole ordeal happened, he got tired of drivin' back and forth from here and San Antonio. His oldest is runnin' the shop while he's away." His voice drifted as he migrated further down the hall. Logan was still eyeing the top of the dresser where it appeared a thin film of dust caked the surfaces, sans a few markings, as if items had once rested on the surface. It was a smart move to hide all of Kennedy's personal belongings, now that she realized. The place wasn't entirely _secure_. No fencing or surveillance that she noticed.

In the back, Caldron rummaged around, knocking things over as he continued to talk. "Place is pretty secluded. Most visitors we get are coyotes and other vermin. No foot traffic, trespassers, or hunters to worry about. And not every vehicle can maneuver through the loose sand."

Logan reached up and silently pulled the top drawer open.

Caldron's voice continued, "That way none of those city rats and their damned convertibles can make it back here without findin' themselves in a rut. Like quicksand!" He chuckled to himself.

Curious, Logan peeked inside, discovering dozens of framed pictures. Furrowing her brow, she drew the drawer open wider, allowing what little light to spill in.

"I'll be settin' up traps later," her father added, "Still tryin' to get everything settled. Most of my time is spent at that damn farm with the silo, can't seem to get away long enough to take a shit." He laughed some more.

The first face she spotted was her own, which was odd for Kennedy to have, and immediately threw red flags.

Then she saw her mother's and then her father's. Everyone side by side.

A family photo.

Dozens of them.

All framed. All snapshots of a brief moment in time. When Logan was younger, covered in cake, wearing nothing but a diaper. When her mother was still apart of her life, much less alive and still in one whole piece. When her father still had hair on top of his head and a smile that wasn't so forced and weary.

Why would Kennedy have these?

Another photo was of a small rat terrier, her neighbors dog, before Caldron and Jennifer divorced. Logan remembered it was hit playing in the road. She was there when it happened. Yes, she remembered, feeling her stomach twist with regret twenty years later. It was her fault. They'd been playing. Snickers was his name and he loved to chase and chase and chase. He chased her across the road but never quite made it to the other side.

Eager for more, she yanked the drawer almost completely out of its shelf as more photos of her adolescence revealed themselves. This was not Kennedy's home.

This was her father's home.

* * *

He was lying to her.

Taken aback, she glanced around frantically, absorbing as much of her surroundings as she could. _He was living here._ A tide of questions crashed into her. It was obvious he'd tried to make a quick sweep of the house, tossing items that connected the two out of sight.

This is where he had been hiding all along, she realized, from her.

There was no business trip, no contractor job. Perhaps not even Blackwater. Did he ever touch the middle east or was that the catch phrase he kept telling her to get her off his back?

 _The shambly exterior, the cozy, well furnished interior. He'd been here for some time._

Logan was too afraid to ask herself why. Did he not want her? Had whatever deterred her mother from Logan's life also claimed her father?

 _No,_ the pictures said otherwise. He still loved her. They were once a harmonious family. These were reminders of what had been real and true. They adorned the shelves, she could see it, the markings were there.

Caldron continued to talk from the back of the mobile home, but she couldn't pay attention to what he was saying. Even if she did, she couldn't hear around the blood whooshing against her ears.

 _He'd been here this entire time, just miles away from her…_

The things she had done to lure him back into her life. Threatening voice mails, angry lash outs―the sleepless nights, the gut-wrenching worry, the overwhelming silence. It'd gotten to the point she thought he was dead―hoped he was dead―and not willfully ignoring her. Her mother was already doing a fine job of that.

Moreover, it wasn't just in trying times she needed him, but also her victories and milestones. He wasn't there to encourage her to submit her warrant officer packet or there to congratulate her upon selection. She was the only one in her class unable to be pinned by a family member or a loved one. All others had their husband's, wives, family members mount the stage and slip on their brand new wings against the Army dress blues. Between their tears and proud embraces, Logan stared off stage, hoping Caldron emerge at the last minute. It was no help she told no one her intentions, but she knew Caldron had a way of finding out things. His network ran deep and wide. A fact she still had yet to understand.

Even now that he was back in her life, things were different. There was hardly a trace of the man she knew growing up. He was affectionate once before, but no longer. In truth, he was all she had. Now more than ever and by no means would she fall onto John Wick to fill in the attention she craved.

Certainly Caldron loved her, even if her mother did not.

However, when he did come around, it was to cater to John. What attempt had he made to spend time with her?

No amount of self actualizing could help Logan see what went wrong. Where _she_ went wrong. She was long past damage control.

John Wick was the decided priority, she knew. Keeping alive that fourteen million dollar man commanded Caldron's focus. This was known from the begging. Why did she feel this way now? How could she be so selfish?

But the fact remained, glaring her in the face with a harsh smile. She was an incentive, a ploy, for others to empathize and pity by pretending love could band everyone together.

Everyone _except_ the lovers...

Logan couldn't stop jealousy from rearing an ugly head. A part of her wanted to storm down the hall and reveal everything to him―that her mother was killed, divided and cruelly eviscerated then delivered to her doorstep. That Logan carved a whole into the earth, paces away from raccoons and strays that wore out their welcome. That his perfect little daughter was _fucking_ **John Wick,** unforgivably riding that fourteen million dollar cock with eagerness, wet and heedy every time he came near her, touched her, looked at her.

 _Yes, these things would inflict damage monumentally..._

No father wanted to think and know that the little girl he raised was a whore.

Anger flared; she wanted to hurt him. Logan wanted him to feel just as low and misused.

 _But then…_

She caught herself. She reined it all in, internalizing it like she always did.

He didn't deserve to know anything. Withholding seemed far more rewarding than revealing that godawful truth. Rather make him work for it, than hand it over. That was unfair. He should find out on his own, like she did. That way he'd know what it was like, to stumble upon the ugly truth, the shocking reality that awaited in shadow. She would abandon him here, flee to New York, and find more answers to what she was dealing with. Time was of the essence.

It went without saying Caldron would not explain further―who they were fighting and why. She understood the principle; save John, protect him― _Caldron made a promise. An unbreakable one,_ she gathered.

Logan reached in, picking up the frames and positioned them back on top of the dresser as she did, more items beneath revealed themselves. One being a large jewelry box which she grabbed and flipped open, assuming it was more pictures and trinkets from her earlier life.

Instead, it was just _gold coins and a large medallion._

Logan found it strange that these very coins had come to find her discovery a second time, but the medallion was new. It was slightly larger than her palm with the side profile of a skull dead center surrounded by filigree. It felt heavy in her hand, valuable.

Footsteps came, alerting her.

There was no way she could pretend; Logan was a poor liar and an even poorer actress.

 _And why did everyone have these damned coins!_

Putting the box back together, she wanted it all: the coins, the medallion and one last picture of her family.

It was time to leave.

It was time to go to New York.

* * *

 **disclaimer; love is however you define it.**

 **Obligatory declaration of love and appreciation for the one we all know as Holly !**

 **l0velylexx: thank you for that tremendous compliment. I'm glad my muse can extend you into the Wick universe! And I wish you the best during the aftermath. I'm in Austin, where there was some minor flood and wind damage but nothing to the extent of the gulf. I'm thinking about you!**

 **Inkandtrees: What is my muse for if not for huge shoot outs and sex scenes?!**

 **thank you for the reviews & your time!**


	27. Chapter 27

" _The forging process is what makes the sword strong. The pressure, the heat, and the pain."_

 _-Tim Kennedy, SFC United States Army._

 **Chapter is 5.2k words.**

* * *

The front door of the Ryder Estate swung violently open, smacking against the wall and rattling the frame upon its hinges. The report resonated throughout the homestead in a startling clap, up the stairs,

Already, John was moving into action.

By fluid design and finely executed practice, he was armed and in position, without thought nor considerate effort; an actuating machine by the flip of a switch.

Then he heard voice call out from below and the protocol ended as quickly as it began.

 _Caldron was here and something was awry._

"Logan?" The emission was loud and reached the top of the stairs distinctly. The tremor, the panic that scratched the parlance.

John glanced towards the bed, sans his pet, the mussed sheets were abandoned. _Where was Logan?_

Outside, dawn warmed the black horizon.

 _How did she...?_

"Logan!" The voice bellowed again, emotion weakening the sound. "John?"

John stowed his weapon in its respective spot and reached for the bedroom door.

Taking the stairs three at a time, Caldron ascended so quickly he nearly crashed in John as he emerged from his bedroom.

"Where is she?" Caldron panted, flustered. A moment passed, too heavy for the worrisome father to withstand. He yelped impatiently. " _WHERE IS SHE?!"_

"I have no idea," John admitted calmly, unmoved by the crescendo despite having just awakened. Something had happened, that much was apparent.

Brushing past the hitman, Caldron stalked down the hall, shouting for his daughter. As her father moved, each door along the way was thrown open and the dwelling beyond investigated thoroughly. The bedding was ripped away, pillows tossed, bathroom closets rummaged as he rifled through each room like an addict hunting for his lost stash.

 _Empty..._

 _Empty..._

 _Empty...!_

It was useless at this point, John knew she was gone. Though, they'd gone to bed together after a quick rutting in the hallway, how she slipped away without disturbing him was feat itself. Normally, John was a light sleeper. No, he _was_ a light sleeper; he had to be. However, after being satisfied sexually...perhaps..

John almost blushed.

Caldron returned, hysterical and now breathless. "Please, help me find her."

A sheen of sweat glistened across his bald head. Propping his hands akimbo, he started to pace. Through his nose Caldron took a deep, clearing breath, then the fretting father gave a quick recap of his muggy morning. It started with an early phone call then a request to relocate John, a few ugly choice words exchanged between father and daughter, Caldron―being half-asleep― then made a poor decision.

"She knows," Caldron concluded pitifully. "She knows and now she's gone."

John observed and listened. There wasn't much else he could do. Though the two men had _very_ similar pasts, their approach to personal matters were starkly opposite. Caldron worked in arbitrary fashion. John was systematic. He knew what it felt like to lose someone he dearly loved, but Logan was not lost, more than likely off brooding over the discovery of her father's hideout. In time, she would get over it.

How much _did_ she know besides discovering her father's deception and intentional avoidance?

"To what extent?" John inquired.

"Enough!" Caldron exclaimed, flabbergasted. "She knows enough and she's gonna figure it out." A red hand rose to pinch the bridge of an evenly flustered nose. Caldron was thinking of the worst, dreading the worst and this was not even the more horrific thing to happen, John realized.

Caldron continued to pace, a desperate sigh escaping. "She's not answerin' her phone. I went to the back to put some shoes on and head here, and when I came back, she was gone. She left, went through a dresser and found _everythin'._ "

All the years he'd spent grooming and preparing her for a variety of disasters. The day had finally come. He'd never actually thought anything would happen. _Years_ had gone by―years!And now complacency had bested him.

 _Calm down,_ he told himself as John headed downstairs. Unable to sit still in the silence, he followed.

Rounding the banister, the duffel bags Logan had dropped were gone. John continued on to check what else was missing from below. When he entered the vault, jutting out beneath the work bench―whereas it was flushed once before―was his cache trunk. He slid it out and, after a quick inspection, he had lost a coin, not of his own volition.

"Caldron," John called out. _Why did she take a coin..._

The man followed from behind, spotting the trunk, before dragging his gaze back up to John.

"Did she take anything from you?" asked John, curious. Pieces were falling into place.

Caldron nodded, "A picture, _all my coins_ , and the Marker."

Beneath an inscrutable visage, John's chest tightened. The image of the poorly quartered woman re-emerged. As disturbing as it was, surely this was Logan seeking vengeance. Even if emotionally, she was unreadable. Any indication of her distress was not displayed which proved difficult to gauge her response. But where were her leads? John retraced his memory and the conversations between Logan and himself. Aside from the glaringly distracting bouts of passion they haphazardly conducted, there were moments they weren't interlocked physically.

 _New York, where it all began._

He'd shared that with her once before.

 _The coins. The Marker. The arsenal in tow._

Even still... to think, _to believe,_ she could do something of this magnitude―for her mother?

While she barricaded herself to the confines of her room, John reviewed the cam feed. The box seemingly fell from the sky, kicked out of a low flying aircraft more than likely, which explained why the alarms never triggered. Moreover, only one crime family had a stint for vivisecting...

In the end, running was still not an option. John had no intention of leaving. He made it this far, killing Marshall and his crew, obtaining Desmond―Aurelio's greedy little nephew―who now had no tongue or fingers, but was released on behalf of pity; a painful, but valuable, lesson was learned. The lesser partner was removed, left to bleed out in a field from a chest wound signed by 12 gauge. As for Logan, she was more than welcome to leave at her own discretion; one less life claimed in his wake.

But _this,_ barreling for New York with the intent to cut the snake off at the head...

It was beyond her scope of understanding and capability. It was another dimension of death and corruption. She couldn't, _wouldn't,_ last long on her own.

Still, she was Caldron's daughter and the scenario felt oddly familiar.

Furrowing his brow, John removed the lid from his trunk and stared fondly into his possessions. The choice was his. It always had been. He could wait it out, slaughtering those who continued to come for him. A Marker bound Caldron to John, as it so often did to its participants. But without Logan, Caldron's heart was not in it.

Perhaps, neither was John's.

In the little time he was exposed to Logan, _complicated_ barely scratched the surface. She was difficult at times, undoubtedly. Moody on all accounts, but for the lot of her actions, she was quite straightforward with what she wanted.

Whether that be John, her father, or in this case, revenge. For that, he could admire.

And the only man connected to John who could provide a direction― _that_ _Logan knew_ ―was Aurelio.

Shutting the lid, John stood knowing there were two ways it could go.

He'd have Aurelio ship her back, _or_ he'd have to go get her himself.

Both were high on the echelon of _Shit-That-Keeps-You-From-Retiring._

* * *

Logan drove twenty-seven hours straight, stopping only for gas, restroom needs, and her eighth cup of coffee. Her appetite was lost beneath the vestigial heart ache from recent revelations and the drive kept her mind busy; like a tethered dog desperately straining to break free and tear across open space, her grief and anguish would have to wait for release once the emotional restraints grew weak and weary.

Lying on the passenger's floor board was her lifeless phone. Powered off, it would remain so until the task was done or the gates of hell swung open.

For reassurance, Logan checked and rechecked the rear view mirror, even after she reached her destination.

Comfort was no longer home for her, perhaps neither was Texas. For years Logan had been on her own and looked after herself for so long, her present location and situation did not faze her. Logan adapted, whether in the blistering heat or the frigid cold, it mattered not.

She considered selling the house as is before disappearing. Surrendering her father to the proverbial shit storm would have been the easiest route. If Logan were selfish … _or a psychopath_.

However, she was neither―in a hopeful sense.

Caldron was still her father, and the bonds of unconditional love held her fast. No matter how often she feigned indifference, or raged against the invisible tether, Logan would never be free. Reaching New York and successfully mitigating the unknown but inevitable hazards would prove her worth. Even though at the time, she wanted to hurt him spitefully, she was still his daughter and still she wanted to make him proud.

" _If you had just given me the chance…"_

Logan squeezed the steering wheel tighter as she drove, lost in the churning storm of her conflicting thoughts. _Yes_ , they had gotten too close. _Yes,_ her inexplicable dedication to Cauldron _and_ John was irreversible. And _yes_! She _hated_ feeling this way, regardless of _who_ was the subject of her affections.

 _John…_ There he was―plaguing her thoughts again and again...and _again_.

They'd spent so much time together, Logan feared they became conjoined; where did John end, and Logan begin? Their existence seemed symbiotic. He was an extension of her now; it was impossible for her to not think about him, and ludicrous to tell herself she didn't…

She gritted her teeth, refusing to allow the words to even manifest as thoughts.

This head versus heart she endured; it was constant tiresome battle for Logan, an individual who abhorred any form of emotional attachment. Once a festering wound as a child, now a puckered scar she couldn't ignore as an adult. The mere thought of losing Cauldron, even _if_ he wanted to be lost―or John, frightened Logan more than she could verbally express. Losing _either_ of them pumped her stomach with battery acid.

But this trip was not about John. It wasn't. It was about Jennifer, Logan's unloving, dead mother. She had to get even, retribution was afoot. Wasn't that why she dropped everything and was bound for New York? Did she truly believe it―or was it a convenient excuse to leave John and Caldron, the persons she cared for the most? As if proximity was what ailed her, as if by physically removing herself, the inhibiting effects would disappear and she would be better once more.

 _Out of sight, out of mind_ as the adage goes.

More than three years passed since she saw or spoke to her mother. Long healed were those wounds, until that dreadful box was opened. It was pointless to care now. Oddly, Logan hadn't cried … yet; if Cauldron was in that box... she kept the thought at bay. There was no sense in getting worked up over a hypothesis.

Now Logan feared her subconscious was manifesting, compelling her to flee, to run from everyone she cared for, as if fate was attentively listening, bent close and waiting for her heart to win over her mind to finally claim them all.

It had nothing to do with John...

 _But it did._

Revenge was only reflexive.

Everyone knew that.

* * *

In her kitchen, Addy watched the steam rise in languid tendrils, before it dissipated against the sunset. All day, Addy tossed and turned. Sleep eluded her, and she passed time staring restlessly into the ceiling until an umbra from the setting sun crept across her ceiling. Now fatigue clung to her sense as she stared into the surface of her hot drink.

The cause of her insomnia was a man; not just any man― _Abram Tarasov_ ―who was sound asleep in her guest bedroom, while she waited downstairs, still clad in her pajamas.

It was her fault he was there.

Addy wasn't completely in the loop, but she knew enough. As the Continental's barkeep, she rarely asked for information. Working strange hours brought strange happenings to the Continental through the eventide and into nightfall. The irresistible combination of her potent beverages, a dash of _something_ ―when sanctioned by her employer, and swollen egos relaxed even the most taciturn lips. With drinks at ready provision, all Addy had to do was wait … _and listen._

By order of the Continental's Kingpin, Winston, Addy was only to drug the Russian, and stand aside as the fell nature of the Underworld took its course. Mr. Tarasov, like the masses preceding him, came before Winston with the same incentive:

Find **John Wick** and collect the fourteen million dollar bounty.

Greed's effects swayed even the most mentally sound men to make reckless decisions. Abram's predecessors shared an irreversible fate but instinct told her Abram was different. Addy could _see_ it when she looked into his blue eyes. As he watched the revelers on the dance floor, she watched him. He was older, and not her type, yet she was drawn to him. Unbeknownst to Abram, the colored strobe lights and play of shadows that danced along the contours of his face fascinated his server. What caught Addy's attention was the thrill in his eyes; it was not driven by the desire for riches or reputation, but fear. Abram was afraid of John Wick―and rightfully so. She imagined a recent encounter with John left a lasting impression, _or scar_.

Against her better judgment, by the time Abram finished his laced drink, Addy made a startling decision.

Above her, the wooden floor groan and creak. Addy smirked fondly, taking a gentle sip of her spruced up coffee. Milky and sweet, like her. She opened a cabinet and produced a second mug. Filling it with coffee, like many men, she assumed he preferred it black and unsweetened. Oddly, she found how a man liked his coffee said much about him. Abram _seemed_ like a black-drip-kind-of-man, but honestly, what did she know?

Carefully balancing both mugs in her grasps, she headed upstairs.

With her foot, she eased open the cracked door. Abram was sitting up shirtless, confounded and glancing about the unfamiliar room as his mind replayed the last of his horrific hours cognizant. The room which he woke in was predominantly white with chic decor and hardwood flooring. The ambiance was light and airy. By the bedside along the floor was a fluffy, white throw rug. She hoped waking in such a place would ease his apprehension. It wasn't a dungeon and she certainly didn't tie him to anything.

When he noticed her, the fitted grey shorts and a loose fitting, yellow, racerback tank top clung to her slender frame, her dark copper hair swept to one shoulder. He did not recognize her, save for the tattoos.

He shook his head in disbelief then wiped the sleep from his eyes. Was she real?

"Am I dead?" Sleep deepened his voice. Bruising made his features more haggard than his age alone and the bridge of his nose had a nick. The blow was hard and precise enough to send narrow wings of purple and green bruising beneath the bags of his eyes. Winston was merciless, but he had to be. She didn't blame him. If she had as much power, she would do the same for John in such harrowing conditions. It wasn't fair.

Addy smiled. Despite the sleeplessness, she'd been smiling quite frequently. She handed him his coffee which he took without protest.

"There's nothing in it," she admitted, then realized it was far too soon for such a statement, considering this is how it all started―her drugging him.

"I mean," she bit her lip, ashamed, " I didn't add any cream or sugar, _or anything else_ ," she added quickly.

He seemed wary at first, but he was here now and well within good hands. Addy had nearly begged Winston not to kill him. During her years at the Continental, corruption had a look and feel.

Albeit, Abram was no angel; he was no heathen either.

Winston felt the sincerity in her pleas. Abram was spared and given to Addy like spoiled left overs. It broke her heart watching Winston's men lug an unconscious Tarasov into the back of her white Volkswagen. Their hands were rough, shoving his slack limbs out of the way, tossing immobile arms across his battered chest before slamming the car door shut. In now, the innards of her car smelled like metal and expensive cologne

Naturally, Winston warned her about Tarasovs. Of course, she assured him everything would be alright. Abram was the _lesser_ of the few evils that were the Tarasovs. In fact, Abram was the last of his name. Viggo and Iosef Tarasov, the more ruthless fist that held the name, had recently passed.

Perching at the foot of the bed, she tucked her legs beneath her and watched him take a small sip.

He sighed softly, the warm coffee touching his battered soul.

She smiled some more, recalling how well-kempt he was when he walked into the speakeasy. Hair slicked back, beard conditioned and groomed, and a charcoal suit with a canary yellow tie. Perhaps it was the tie. Yellow was an innocent color, too innocent for a callous Tarasov.

"Where am I?" His accent was more detectable now that the drowning club music wasn't there to snuff it out. Addy admired it.

"You're at my apartment in Manhattan," she explained.

"Why am I here? Where is Winston?"

Tilting her head, she answered, "Winston is at the Continental. You're here because," she bit her lip, unsure how he was respond to her intervention. A risky feat it was to follow Winston to his secluded industrial park where he brought his subjects. But Addy was no heathen; she was no angel either. She meant well and Winston trusted her. "I couldn't... I couldn't let him kill you."

She met Abram's gaze and a warmth of demure colored her cheeks. Uncomfortable, Abram looked away first. He wasn't used to a pretty thing like Addy looking at him like _that_. He didn't understand why Winston spared him. At this point, it was rhetorical. He was alive, for that he was grateful. If Addy had something to do with it, there was a reason.

"I should thank you," he muttered, the Tarasov pride proving hard to swallow; a _woman_ had saved him. He stared out of the bay window that faced the coming dusk. Though buildings hemmed either side, there was a breadth of passage, almost by serendipitous design, that granted the evening rays bypass. In the light, the flecks of grey in his beard looked silver. The bruises blending with his tattoos, the mussed hair; a fallen angel Addy had captured.

"You're welcome," then came her gentle smile, assuring him even if that wasn't her intentions. His heart leaped.

No longer obscured in darkness, Abram could see her hair color was a tumble of natural red with hues of gold, _not_ brunette as he initially thought. Intricate tattoos carved a path just above her elbow and followed upward, cresting her shoulder and peaking out along her neck from beneath her fallen hair.

She was pale, like Abram, but it was flattering, unlike Abram. His heart did a most uncomfortable rhythm within his chest.

Suddenly aware of his bare torso, he grabbed at a pillow and placed it on his lap, halfway attempt at shielding himself. Rich, revered― _a Tarasov_ ―but still rather daft and insecure when it came to _pretty little things_. Before, money had bought such attention. Abram didn't pay for this, he didn't even ask for it; _none of it._

"You're welcome to stay here and get some rest." Addy offered, untucking her legs and standing. "I've got to get ready for work."

* * *

 _New York City._

Dusk revealed the distinctive skyline against the horizon. The sinking sunset light the background in burning hues of oranges, outlining the city's silhouette. Above the towering skyscrapers were softened by the following cool indigos and muted starlight of early gloaming.

Just outside Manhattan, Logan checked into a suitable motel. After unloading her luggage, she wearily stripped down to her sport bra and panties. Logan sat on the edge of the bed, carefully studying the portrait in her hands while the shower warmed.

The stolen photo was of them―Caldron, Jennifer, and herself; she had never seen the monochrome picture, until now. The professionally stylized, matte print captured Jennifer, poised and daintily seated before an elegant grand piano. Her pale, slender hands rested delicately in her lap and her long, dark hair was smoothed back into a lengthy braid that fell past her posterior. Situated on a vintage settee atop hand-carved, wood clawed feet, and attired in a pale three piece suit, was her father; upon his lap, sat Logan. They were looking at each other. Her little hand was reaching up for the smile spread across her father's face.

Logan's fingers trembled as she tucked the photograph safely away. Physically exhausted, she remained mentally alert, for this was only the beginning. Before she could forget, she called her employer through the motel's phone and negotiated some time off. If she made it out, at least she wouldn't be unemployed.

Eyeing the luggage near the door way, she narrowed in on her phone, still off and it would remain so.

 _No…_ who knew what havoc awaited her once she turned it on; in due time.

Contemplating her current unplanned circumstances, Logan laid back along her bed and stared into the ceiling. Outside, an engine failed to turn over with the ignition was applied. The machine sputtered and coughed before finally dying. Several moments past, and the user tried again.

 _It's dead._ she wanted to step out and declare, just get to the noise to stop. They'd need someone to come tow―

 _Aurelio!_

A wave of excitement surged through her, only to be quickly extinguished by the realization she did not know the name of Aurelio's tow truck company, nor did he divulge his last name. Searching for Aurelio via cell phone was not an option; she was not ready for that.

Tiredly mulling over her limited options, Logan's throbbing headache made it difficult to plan; and then she remembered the guest computer in the main lobby.

* * *

Aurelio was rolling a brand new tire across his work shop, when his lead mechanic emerged from the office, waving his arms to catch his attention and shouting to him across the busy workspace.

"Ay, Boss!"

Aurelio glanced up. The thickset man tossed a dirty shop rag over his shoulder, before jutting an equally thick thumb backwards.

"Some lady's at the gate."

It was well past midnight―much too late for _ordinary_ visitors. Puzzled, Aurelio motioned him over and gestured for him to roll the tire to its destination across the cement floor. He took a moment to survey the work floor and his men as a swell of pride came over him.

Aurelio's demanding work ethic and attention to detail acquired him a reputation, earning his shop an enviable listing on the _Continental's_ highly selective roster of approved vendors that provided premier goods and services, and for specialized, advantageous _patronization_.

Like many things associated with the shadowy Underground, appearances were deceiving, and yet they were everything. The chop shop's plain and unadorned exterior cleverly disguised an extraordinarily clean and organized interior that operated 24 hours a day―attesting to Aurelio's outstanding ability to render services in a timely manner within the highest level of discretion.

The time and effort he invested to recruit and assemble his rigorously vetted, carefully selected team paid off handsomely. Each individual on his payroll had a specific task to perform. Impressively efficient, his employees meshed well together―Aurelio's generous wages and bonuses ensured they kept _silent_ about the shop's more clandestine operations, and his leadership, tough but fair, rendered their loyalty. For most, at least; some were beyond even _his_ repair.

At a nearby work station, bright sparks arced and spewed forth, bouncing off the man's protective helmet and gloves as he welded. Another repairman carried two empty tubs of hydraulic fluid towards the hazmat bin. Aurelio's new hire, a young and talented grease monkey, placed his arm elbow deep into the engine compartment of an old Crown model, tinkering away at the faulty carburetor.

Entering the office, he studied the monitor projecting the camfeed; he didn't recognize the newcomer.

Cocking his head to the side, Aurelio used the mouse to manipulate the camera, seeking a better angle on the woman in the frame; it was a challenge, for she kept glancing around and looking over her shoulder, before she turned completely around and peered into the surrounding darkness. Despite the video feed's high resolution and night vision technology, Aurelio still did not know who stood at his door. His dark eyes narrowed as he continued to adjust and zoom in on his subject.

"Quit _moving_ …," he muttered, zooming in on her profile.

Exasperated, he muttered a string of curses softly under his breath. She heard the faint sound of the motor, and looked directly up into the camera.

" _Shit_." His eyes widened with surprise and recognition.

 _Ah, yeah_ ― _this can't be good!_ Aurelio thought, fighting to remain calm as fear and apprehension rose. Her presence only meant bad news.

Wiping a hand down his face, Aurelio reached over and buzzed Logan in.

* * *

Aurelio prepared himself for the inevitable news as she pulled in and killed the engine. The garage fell eerily quiet, despite the night crew still on the clock. They moved about the concrete and automobiles warily. It was in the air; everyone could feel it.

"Say it ain't so," Aurelio sighed as she got out and slammed the truck door closed. _The time had finally come._

"Can we talk?" she asked, sliding a look towards his workers, " _In private?"_

Stomach clenched, he nodded and gesture for her to follow.

Why wouldn't she just come out and say it? Aurelio thought, turning away and leading her across the shop.

 **John Wick was dead.** His _friend_ was dead.

Aurelio took her to his office where he shut the door and closed the blinds. Drawing two glasses from his wet bar, he decanted himself and his visitor a drink.

"A'right," he sighed, easing down into his chair. His stomach continued to twist and churn, forming knots. "Let's get to it."

Logan stared at her hands momentarily, picking at the callous along her palms while she contemplated what to say. Deciding, she started with the truth. "I need your help."

It was undetermined how much she could share with Aurelio or if he truly was on John's side. She hadn't forgotten how he led Marshall to her backdoor. Though, not directly, it was still a pivotal moment for all of them. In truth, she knew a car mechanic couldn't solve all her problems but at least it was a step in the right direction. She felt it.

Aurelio took a sip of his drink and kept quiet, allowing the words to sink in.

Hemming, he asked. "What's it that ya need?"

Logan looked up and held his gaze. _Where to begin? How far back did she need to go?_ Moreover, _who_ was responsible for all that was happening? She just wanted to understand.

Testing her theory, she spoke carefully. "I want...I want to find the people who did this to him."

Aurelo's stomach plummeted despondently. _John_ was _dead. Oh God no..._

* * *

After a moment's consideration, Aurelio admitted he was not the man for Logan. She'd come all this way seeking unanswered questions and found Aurelio to be hardly of any help. Alongside the useless conversation, he appeared crestfallen and distracted, which puzzled her more than anything.

"It's difficult," he explained. "The underground isn't your _run-of-the-mill club_. Ya can't just walk in there."

Logan grimaced, but kept quiet.

Aurelio stared into his fourth glass of tequila. Its effects were finally taking the edge of. It'd help him cope, but only for so long. "I admire whatcha doin' here, Logan. Comin' all this way, trying to finish what he started. But ya in over ya head."

Logan stared across the shop, reflecting deeply. Could she confide in Aurelio, she wondered. It was Aurelio who delivered an assault directly to her doorstep. Had he not, the car would have never been delivered. The tracker would have never been planted. One thing after another, and now her mother was dead.

Gauging her decision, she looked at him, searching for an answer in his eyes. "Do you care for someone, Aurelio?"

He blinked, caught off guard. After a moment, he said nodded. Of course he did.

Logan looked away. "I want to know what that's like." To care for another without it consuming you. It didn't feel right to her, to lose yourself in another so comprehensively but she knew no other way. Love seemed like a bottomless pit and right now, she clung to its edge.

He tilted his head, studying her. "You've never loved someone before?"

She told him no.

"I find that hard t'believe," he scoffed with a small smile. "Whattabout your parents?"

Between an estranged father and dissected mother, her options were limited. Aurelio didn't need to know that.

"Not that kind of love," she confessed. Something deeper, less forced, and reciprocal. That's all she truly wanted. To love without the fear of losing.

"It might be too late," she murmured, staring at her hands again. "I'm just trying to help."

The subject changed. He knew she was referring to John again.

"You are helping," he assured her. "You've kept him safe, off the radar for as long as you could."

"That's not enough, Aurelio."

He grew quiet.

Respiring, Logan said, "I'd like to know what I'm dealing with. I want on the _inside.._."

If that were the case, he truly did not have the answers for her.

But he knew someone who did.

* * *

 **I'm finally on a regular schedule again. So updates won't be so sporadic. Thanks for your time reading!**


	28. Chapter 28

_"This ain't no Holiday Inn or Hilton Hotel, ya understand?"_

Aurelio warned Logan to exercise extreme caution. Its upscale location in New York made it respectable. Despite its exquisite opulence, the Continental was not ―no matter what ―a place to drop your guard. Vigilance behooved a stranger in an unknown city; within the Assassins' haven, it was imperative. There would be no quarter given, no second chance. First impressions were important, and Logan wanted to make a statement.

In the reflection of a dingy motel mirror, Logan combed her wet hair. Behind her, laid out across the bedding was a grey dress for tonight's events. A rather modest but sophisticated garment she collected on her return to the motel. With short, cap sleeves and scooped neckline made of delicate floral lace overlaying the fitted lining beneath, it complimented her figure. Nearby were the matching heels.

 _"Now―y'can't just walk in an' ask for the Manager," Aurelio had explained just hours before her return._

While her hair dried, she applied mascara to accentuate her long lashes, and swiped tinted gloss across her lips; a light dusting of blush gave a hint of color to her freckled cheekbones.

Hungry slate eyes looked herself over meticulously.

Ready or not… here she was...

 _"You'll need to set yourself apart from the rest. They can spot an outsider―a stray. Whaddya do for a livin'?"_

Logan omitted several details, but he understood she was a part of the military. Thinking back to Marshall and the bloodstain her left upon her concrete, she wondered if Aurelio knew of his subordinate's fate. If he did, it didn't appear that he cared.

 _"Ah, yeah. That's cute," he snorted derisively, "These folks don't care 'bout none of that. Their lawless but they'll obey one thing and that's the Continental code. You're gonna obey it, too―you don't have a choice."_

Hair down, lips glossy, eye lashes thickened and seductive, she slipped on nude stockings, shimmied into her lacy dress and smoothed the clinging material over her frame.

 _"At the Continental, ya pay for protection. It ain't cheap, and they don't take Visa, MasterCard―or regular money. It's worthless there. They have their own system: coins. I can give you a few._ "

Throwing a duffel bag onto her bed, she drew the zipper back and retrieved the large wooden box she stole from her father's hideout.

 _"Coins?" she interrupted, recalling the coins both John and Caldron possessed. She described them to Aurelio._

 _"Yeah," he replied, incredulous. "How'd you know?"_

Removing the lid, she grabbed a handful and fit as many as she could into her small clutch purse. Eyeing the medallion, she opted to bring it. It's purpose still eluded her; perhaps the medallion and the coins were somehow related.

 _"I've seen them," Logan replied carefully, searching his eyes for a hint to what it all meant. "What do I need to do?"_

 _"One coin―give that to the concierge. Tell 'im what you want."_

 _"Okay," she rose to leave, but his words stopped her._

 _"And, one more thing."_

 _She glanced back._

 _"No funny business. I don't know what your plans are, but don't getcha self too deep. Get in and get out."_

Her eyes roamed over the firearms neatly arranged across the bed. She understood well what Aurelio referred to; the urge to pack a gun or two was strong. Logan fervently believed it best to have it and not need it, than need it, but not have it. Unfortunately, there was no room on her person, or in her clutch purse to stow a handgun, much less a foldable blade. There was one additional item that could fit―the picture of her family.

As Logan stared at her weaponry, the coming ordeal felt more risky than rewarding, but if the all-knowing hotel manager had the answers, then the Continental was her next destination.

* * *

Logan parked and walked the rest of the way. Dusk threw the city's skyline against a fiery backdrop while her lengthened shadow worked in tandem with the staccato report of her heels.

The wedge shaped hotel occupied an entire city block; from the curiously pointed entrance, its patrons exited onto the bustling street, seamlessly blending in with the populous like proverbial wolves amongst the sheep. Uniformed bellhops positioned themselves beneath the black awning; their friendly smiles were at odds with the searching, calculating look in their eyes as they watched Logan ascend the steps.

With a polite nod and a cheshire grin, the topmost bellhop silently drew open the wrought iron gate, allowing Logan Ryder unchallenged access to the Continental Hotel. The door closed quietly behind her, shutting out the harsh brick and industrial jungle that encompassed the city itself, and opened up to aforementioned affluence within. The interior was too smooth, soft, and clean.

As Logan composed herself, she admiringly noted the luxurious, beige carpeting beneath her feet, and how the rich fragrance of top grain leather and soothing chamomile gently caressed her senses. Soft, classical music further enhanced the refined ambiance and muted the hushed conversations around her. Careful to keep her expression placid, everywhere Logan glanced were well dressed patrons; seated in leather chairs, gathered together, or lounging at their leisure with electronic devices in hand; Logan was surrounded by assassins. That much she knew. She realized with great dismay, that any one of the professional killers resembled a business executive, a trendy hipster, a college professor, or … anyone they chose to be.

" _These people kill for a living. Just try not t'draw attention to yourself…"_

Shaken to her core and trembling inside, she sternly berated herself; there was no turning back now. _Ready or not, here she was._

As she met curious gazes and returned polite nods of the well dressed assassins of the storied hotel, she proceeded forth. Their sharp, predatory gazes followed Logan as they sized her up, before returning to their dealings. Overhead, a daunting, black chandeliers' crystal prisms captured the evening rays and threw colorful rainbows across the high, vaulted ceiling. The carpets' geometric design led her quietly over a white marble floor, and directly to the concierge.

Dark eyes lifted from the computer screen as Logan approached, but gave no indication of the man's thoughts. A well-versed smile lifted his lips as he greeted her.

"Good evening; my name is Charon. How may I assist you, Miss …?" An accent unknown to Logan greeted her politely.

"Ryder" she answered; his finger tapped a crisp beat on the keyboard of his computer.

"I do not have you listed in my database. Do you have a reservation here, Miss Ryder?" he asked softly; his probing gaze made Logan freeze; blank was her mind―the script she practiced lost. She became painfully aware of the silent bellhops flanking the desk at either end.

"No," she admitted, careful to conceal her own accent, "I was hoping to speak to the Manager; is he in…?"

"The manager is _always_ in. Is he expecting you?"

"No," she admitted again. "I just need some information regarding one of his business partners, shouldn't take long."

"Of course." The man's eyes narrowed slightly, as a tiny, knowing smirk appeared on his lips. "But the manager is a _very_ busy man. Perhaps _I_ can assist you with your concerns?"

That was unexpected. She needed to see the manager, not the concierge. Aurelio made no mention of delegation between owner and Charon. Logan wracked her brain for her next choice of words. They would either grant her access or revoke her very presence.

Glancing over her shoulder, she surveyed the patrons around her. Most paid her little mind, but a few caught her stare.

She wondered…

Whoever John was to these people, to this faction, the mention of Wick's name held much weight―fourteen million dollars' worth.

Bringing herself closer to the concierge's desk, she spoke barely above a whisper.

"I have information about John Wick I think the manager would like to hear."

Charon blinked twice, his dark eyes widened imperceptibly and he said no more; instead, he gazed at her expectantly. Logan remembered her part of the bargain: access and protection via coin, _however that worked_ ―who was she to judge their inner workings?

From her small purse, _just in case,_ she placed two coins on the counter and slid them towards him.

With a minute tilt of his head, Charon completed their transaction; his dark, tapered fingers swept the gleaming coins toward him, and he deposited them into his till.

Charon picked up a phone and murmured quietly into the handset. After a brief conversation, he returned it to its cradle. With an unreadable expression on his face, he glanced at the bellhops, who discreetly made themselves inconspicuous; their maroon uniforms blended in with the decor's theme, and virtually hid them in plain sight. Charon exited from the desk area, beckoning Logan to follow.

Against her breastbone still rested John's ring; at once, she knew it resided within the very walls. Though surrounded by death dealers, a sense of comfort remained.

* * *

In silence, they rode a private elevator down and entered a dimly lit restaurant. Dark, polished wood covered the floor and heavy, vermilion drapery lined every wall. High above, subdued lighting basked the coffered ceilings with gentle warmth, creating a relaxing ambiance.

Situated in the furthest corner upon an elevated platform, a small jazz band played an ambling tune that swept across the open space. The voluptuous, lead vocalist crooned into the microphone, as she rhythmically swayed to each sultry riff delivered by the tenor sax player next to her. The drummer bobbed his head to the accompanying beat as the other musicians danced on stage. Behind them, a grand piano sat directly beneath a stage light. Beyond the silent instrument, more crimson curtains covered the backdrop, absorbing any harsh discord from the band.

Logan loved and hated the impressive instrument as she recalled her recently acquired photo. Though beautiful sounds could be elicited from the felt covered hammers and metal strings, Logan had a lingering disdain for the contraption, yet the glowing keyboard and unoccupied bench beckoned to her, inviting her to play. Charon led her past a bar that was tended by a slender redhead, who flashed Logan a polite smile as she wiped a towel across the polished surface.

Charon led her to the farthest corner, where an older gentleman was seated alone in a semi-circular booth. A scotch, neat, rested nearby; at their approach, pale, blue eyes peered over the reading glasses perched midway upon his nose. Standing aside, with a wide sweep of his hand, Charon gestured towards the older gentleman, whose bland gaze swept over Logan as he quietly closed the ledger before him.

"Good evening, Sir," the concierge respectfully addressed the older man with a slight bow.

" _Miss Ryder_ is here to see you."

"Thank you." the manager drawled, dismissing the concierge with a nod. Charon turned and silently made his way back to the entrance without a backward glance.

Logan's stomach clenched; she began tallying up Aurelio's warnings in her head. Knowing the people surrounding her were killers made her very uncomfortable; however, what was more disconcerting, was the fact none of them looked the part. Even now, the man before her looked to be nothing more than a harmless, distinguished gentleman, perhaps a much loved husband, or even a doting grandfather.

"Miss Ryder," he greeted her; Logan detected a faint English accent in his smooth voice. Politely, he rose and extended his hand. "I don't believe we've met before. I am Winston, the _manager_." Aurelio was right. There was concision in his air and address, _much like John._

"Nice to meet you," she took his hand into hers with gentle confidence. His hand was warmer than hers, for anxiety withdrew blood from her extremities and pumped it into her center mass, nourishing her vital organs.

"My pleasure. Please, do sit down."

Logan swallowed thickly, mindful of her location. Deep within the bowels of the deadly lair, already she'd counted twelve males and two females, not including herself. However, no funny business kept her from taking necessary precautions; she was unarmed and uncertain if the rules that applied to one, applied to all.

Logan sank down into the opposing bench, using the moment to study Winston. His pale eyes held her attention. Though kind, they were keen, observant and quite frankly, reminded her of her father's. Though his hair was a nest of dark, greying curls instead of shiny skin.

Winston sat furthest back, facing the only exit within the speakeasy; her father called it 'the gunfighter's seat,' for it enabled a body to keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings of all souls within the establishment. Danger or foul play could be predicted long before it transpired. Whether it was intentional or not, Logan was not sure. Perhaps she was overthinking the situation and giving the older gentleman too much credit? For all she knew, that could be his favorite seat and nothing else. However, Aurelio had specifically warned her of the Continental's Kingpin.

Whatever the case may be, Logan was before him now, whether she wanted to be or not. And, he was polite enough. Maybe Aurelio over exaggerated …?

"What brings you to my establishment this fair evening, Miss Ryder?"

There was no sense in drawing out the inevitable; she gathered her thoughts. Mustering her courage, Logan got down to business.

"I was hoping you could give me some information about John Wick."

Declaring her intentions bluntly seemed silly. Deliberately stirring the pot, intending to engage any proverbial riffraff was immature and a waste of time and resources. If she remained in Texas, what was she to do? Wait for the day she came home to another box of body parts? If they did manage to kill John, then what? Logan highly doubted life would return to normal.

A sardonic smirk appeared on Winston's lined face. Her words came as no surprise. "Ah, yes, Jonathan. If I'm not mistaken, Charon said you had the information."

"I was searching for the correct rhetoric," she admitted placidly.

"Sly girl," Winston muttered before polishing off his drink.

 _Jonathan …_

Logan blinked, mentally tasting the name Jonathan on her tongue. Until now, she'd never thought of John's full name: **Jonathan Wick.** She liked it very much. As Logan's heart warmed at the discovery of what must be Wick's given name, Winston signaled to the barkeep. Previously Aurelio had painted Winston as a ruthless man; however, his fond reference to their subject pulled lightly at Logan's decrepit heartstrings. It was too intimate of a gesture which did not slip past Logan's notice.

The bartender came to their booth.

"A drink, _on the house_ ," he said to the slender redhead, "For our first time guest."

"Yes, Sir," She glanced at Logan before returning to the bar, where from there, Logan continuously felt the woman's stare. It made her uncomfortable and excluded― _like a stray._

When their drinks appeared, Logan kept her focus on Winston. Another scotch, neat, for him and a fruity, bright blue cocktail for her. She grimaced; to avoid rudely slighting his hospitality, Logan tentatively sipped her beverage.

"What would you like to know?" He proceeded, carefully lacing his fingers together. "If it's his location, I'm afraid I cannot say; his whereabouts are a mystery, _even to me."_

Logan kept her voice low, whispering. "I'm not looking _for_ him." She knew all too well where he _was_ and where he'd _had_ been. Beneath the table, out of the manager's sight, she pressed her thighs together.

Still maintaining vigilance, she glanced around, as if all responsible for the events up until now would present themselves. Maybe Winston was one of the men who put John out? If that were the case, why in the _world_ would Aurelio send her here? _She was a lamb in the lion's den_.

Treading cautiously, she decided to utilize the information John shared, to see if it could elicit a more definitive response; right now, she was shooting in the dark.

Logan elaborated, "I'm looking for the _people_ who did this to John."

Winston furrowed his brow, intrigued by her heading. "Go on," he said.

In truth, Logan didn't know where to begin with her inquiries. There was so much she didn't know, so much John refused to tell.

"Where did it all begin? Why is he running? Who are all these people after him?" The questions came flooding forward. "I understand he broke a code, and killed on Continental ground, is that what brought the contract?" She pressed an index finger against the table for emphasis. "Was it _here?_ Did he kill a man here?"

The furrowed brows now rose with surprise, ignoring all of her questions. "My word, have you _any_ idea what you've gotten yourself into?"

Sitting back, she dropped her hands into her lap.

"Not exactly," she stated flatly.

Winston chuckled humorlessly, "My dear, you are _well_ in over your head."

Logan flexed her jaw. She already knew this and found this no laughing matter. But now she was second guessing herself. If what he said was true, if she _was_ in over her head, then why was she doing it? _This was not her battle._ It was John's, it was Caldron's for being the man John turned to. It was never part of the agenda to involve herself this thoroughly. In fact, no one asked her to do anything, besides stand by in idle, pretending she wasn't seeking validation from yet _another_ man. She could see it for what it was and it would be an exhausting effort to kill every man and woman who came for John. And what did she get in return besides uncovered lies, a box full of body parts, and a festering complex?

Despite herself, anger warmed and flushed her cheeks. Still, she was very upset with her father. To come to terms with her recent discovery would require some time.

But ultimately and up until this very moment, the decision was hers. It always was. Nothing Logan did or said was beyond her control. Certainly some outcomes yielded better results than others, but life was a choice, and she chose to come here.

Distracted by her thoughts, Logan gaze rested on the piano. Her mother played the piano. _Her mother was also dead_. The grisly image flashed before her mind's eye without resistance. Sadistically, Logan wanted to see it, to embrace the memory in all its literal guts and glory. It was why she'd come here in the first place; to get even. Wasn't it?

Respiring deeply, Logan turned her attention back to Winston, who thoughtfully studied her.

"Were you there when John killed that man?" _Whoever_ that was.

A moment passed. Winston nodded.

"Normally it's not just their Continental membership that I revoke. But Jonathan, " he paused, drawing a deep breath as he sought the words. "In summary, I did what I could."

 _There,_ Logan saw it before it slipped behind an expressionless mask.

 _Despondency_. Winston was regretful in his decision.

"We live by a code," Winston clarified. "If not for rules, we are no better than animals." The manager fixed Logan with another fatherly look that seemed oddly too comforting coming from a stranger.

Still and despite all of Aurelio's warning, she found herself agreeable towards Winston. Up until now, Logan had been selective with her information and intentions on all accounts. Even her father barely knew what she was up to―at least she thought so. Returning to earlier's exchanged with Charon, Logan wondered what rhetoric she could utilize to her advantage. Winston seemed to be the right man to indulge.

Unfortunately she was a terrible actress, and even more terrible liar.

 _But what could a little white lie do?_

What he didn't know certainly wouldn't hurt him. From what she could tell, Winston was not happy with the turnabout either. However, he understood John's unfavorable odds. So did she, so they weren't all too different, Winston and Logan.

"Anything else?" Logan probed gently, before she changed her heading once again.

"All that I am able to share," he replied.

Looking thoughtful towards the piano again, she reflected. "I wish I could have learned a bit more about him." She met Winston's attentive gaze, heartfelt. "It's unfortunate what happened to him."

Winston knitted his brow, _And that was?_ expressed across his face.

Logan blinked in disbelief, unable to comprehend that _no one told him the news._

"Winston, _John was killed._ "

* * *

 **We all know Winston favors the ever living shit out of John. I wonder what type of retribution is at hand.**

 **I've changed up the summary because the initial one had a lot of nothing to do with the story in actuality. Yes, blackwater. Yes attachment issues, but it goes much deeper into that. So I fixed it, plot is still the same. Characters etc etc.**

 **Initially, this chapter was supposed to go well over 4k and creep up to 5k. As a reader myself, I sometimes abhor such lengthy chapters because I've got other things to do, like write. Anywho, point being, would yall rather me submit one large chapter every week, or multiple chapters every several days? It's up to yall, really.**

 **Of course, thank you for the time you shared with me reading this, the favorites/follows. Have a good weekend!**


	29. Chapter 29

**Welcome to a dangerous life**

 **a dangerous ride**

 **a dangerous kiss**

-Spells, Orgy

 **xxx**

 **small chapter, but not a filler. There will be no filler chapters from this point on.**

* * *

Winston sat back in his seat, stunned and utterly amazed by Logan's declaration.

"That's why I'm here," she added softly; Logan's unblinking stare was fixed upon Winston, watching him closely, as she attempted to gauge his response. "I need to find the people responsible for the contract, so we can bring it to a close."

Forlorn and in an effort to hide his dejection, Winston lowered his eyes and whispered, "What a _remarkable_ thing to say."

Did _she_ do it? He wondered, still staring into the table's surface where he watched her reflection against the polished wood. _Was that possible?_

In truth, she didn't outright say she was the one who brought John's untimely end, but neither did she reveal she _didn't_ pull the proverbial trigger.

Given the upsetting news from the most unlikely suitor, Winston felt incredulous, and rightly so. This _woman_ , whom he'd never before heard of, much less laid eyes upon, could very well be capable of accomplishing a feat many _Associates_ before her had unsuccessfully attempted: slaying the legendary and revered _Baba Yaga._

But where was her greed? Certainly she knew about the bounty or she wouldn't be _here._

Winston was unable to completely mask his despair, it was too late to avert its detection. Miss Ryder knew Jonathan meant a great deal to the Continental's manager. More than any money or reputation could withstand. In John's passing, Winston lost a true friend. _A son, even._

The unfamiliar, freckled woman, whose shocking announcement now rendered him speechless, held the answers to the many questions he greatly desired to ask. Winston's pragmatic, analytical mind shifted into overdrive, considering her words and searching for clues, … attempting to decipher her motivation, any incentive, and most importantly, her ability to substantiate her dreadful claim. Miss Ryder did not appear to be the elusive type. She was nothing like Jonathan, yet surprisingly, the trait young Miss Ryder and the disavowed professional shared, was sheer audacity.

Logan grabbed her fanciful drink and took another sip; she steadily forced the sugary intoxicant down her throat, consuming the beverage by sheer determination. Only afterward, as Winston threw back his remaining scotch, did Logan briefly consider the strange aftertaste lingering upon her palette. Winston grasped the glass gently before him and thoughtfully stared into its golden depths for a length of time; however, the answers he sought was not in the drink - it sat across from him. Pale blue eyes met and held Logan's storm grey eyes.

She was incapable―or was she …?

Collecting himself, Winston's face once again became an impassive mask when he felt it; the faint, niggling but growing feeling in his gut―disbelief and the compelling drive to challenge Miss Ryder's statement.

 _It must be a bluff, or a ruse._

Jonathan could not be dead, not by _her_ hand. The most adept assassins within the vicinity were unable to even get close enough to critically wound Jonathan, let alone _kill_ the man. Winston simply could not believe her.

Intimidated and riveted in place by the older man's unyielding perceptive stare, Logan keenly felt Winston's displeasure. Unnerved by his silence, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, fighting to suppress the sudden nausea that churned within her. In her efforts, a light sheen of perspiration coated her brow.

Despite her sudden unwellness, Logan's monumental disclosure left her feeling oddly liberated.

If John was dead, the unabated fighting and rising body count could end. No one would come to claim a dead man's head. From Winston's reaction alone, Logan decided she delivered her message to the right man. Whoever Winston was, and _what_ ever his position was within this faction, he could surely propagate the news of John Wick's death. It _would_ spread; Logan was certain―it was out of her hands now. It was out of _John's_ hands.

Her stress lifted; in its place, fatigue set in. It was time to return to the hotel.

"Tell who ever you have to that it's over. Close the contract." she added.

Winston's ever-keen eyes narrowed with such subtlety, it escaped Logan's notice. Winston answered to no one. Those under his authority were unaware of the true extent of his influence and power; that was what his preference demanded. The Continental's master took extreme measures to ensure his far reaching … _influence_ remained unchallenged and absolute. During his cunning rise to power, Winston discretely, efficiently, and ruthlessly managed the East Coast's safe haven for the insidious souls of the underground.

An invested fortune created extensively detailed, private dossiers on key political figures, influential community leaders, noted scholars, his esteemed colleagues and all known and up and coming _professionals_ associated with the underground. His gambit paid off handsomely, and his ever increasing trove of incriminating information, original paperwork and hard copies, were kept under lock and key in his personal, climate controlled vaults and safe rooms, safeguarded by layers of encrypted, bio-metric security systems. Because of his impressive network of loyal employees and cohorts, very little escaped his notice, much less surprised him.

 _Who_ was Logan Ryder? _How was she familiar with their parlance_ ― _what else did she know …?_

More importantly, _how_ did she obtain her insight?

Unless _business_ occurred and blood was spilled on Continental grounds, Winston rarely involved himself in the affairs, contractual agreements and transactions of the Assassins patronizing his establishment. However, when Winston deemed it necessary, and _only_ at his discretion, did he _dabble_ in the affairs and dealings within his domain.

And for any subject to come within the hotel's premises with the intention of claiming John Wick's bounty, Winston deemed quite reasonable means of conducting business. This was asafe haven for _professionals,_ not a motley hub of delinquents.

Instead, he preferred to observe the pieces as they fell into place―however, whenever, and wherever they may. Monitoring any given _situation_ , whatever the resulting outcome, Winston preferred to be an _informed_ observer. However, if what Miss Ryder desired was an audience, Winston would oblige the young woman.

 _For now_.

With a subtle cue, an unnatural stillness descended; the pleasant music overhead and ambient background sounds abruptly halted. The clear, pure tinkling of lead crystal glasses, delicate champagne flutes punctuating celebratory toasts, coupled with the refined sounds of silver cutlery lightly scraping upon fine bone china … quiet murmurs of modulated conversations and occasional chuckles as patrons moved about simply … _stopped_.

All movement ceased.

Silence pervaded the entire room and its occupants. Logan was certain she'd inexplicably become deaf. She glanced around, to see that all eyes were intently and expectantly trained upon them.

"Let it be known," the manager intoned, "That on this day, at this hour, John Wick perished by _your_ hand."

At his minute hand gesture, activity and sounds resumed as quickly as it ended. Logan's heart sank. She hadn't realized just how _dire_ her circumstances became. Until now.

 _Witnesses,_ she realized. Logan's heart beat faster and her stomach churned with burning acidity. _What_ had she gotten herself into? Instinctively, she knew she was in great peril.

Her wide eyes darted to Winston, and then to her drink; too late she noticed the gritty white substance at the bottom of her glass. Her imagination flooded her mind with conjured horrors. _Was she just poisoned_ ―o _r was it the characteristics of the drink?_

 _No…_ She _had_ tasted something bitter.

 _Horrified,_ Logan realized too late she completely disregarded Aurelio's _only_ rule. Winston's seemingly benign appearance cloaked with courteous hospitality, and Logan's arrogant self confidence in her ability to negotiate with the older man, had lulled her into a false sense of security; their careful exchange, rife with old world charm, caused her complacency under the guise of gentility _._ Gone was the manager's veneer of accommodating and engaging solicitude; Logan was frightened by Winston's menacing smile. Her compromised mind was unable to reconcile how his formerly kind eyes skewered her with cold indifference. Logan was terribly mistaken to interfere and involve herself with the sordid works of the underground.

 _It was time to leave._

Logan swallowed convulsively as her nausea tripled when the room tilted and whirled. On the verge of fainting, and about to vomit, Logan pushed herself out of the booth. She lurched forward, her legs trembled violently, unable to hold her upright. Logan stumbled, her arms flailing as she desperately searched for something to grab onto as her vision doubled. Mouth agape, eyes rolling and unable to focus, Logan struggled to regain control of herself.

 _What had she done…?_

Time had no meaning as her senses sharpened; ironically, the world dragged by, and then sped past her in a blur of colors and distorted sounds. Pitching and no longer upon its axis, the room yawed as she struggled to remove herself from the Continental. The taste of sickness climbed to her throat while her heart pounded in her ears. Winston made no attempt to stop or assist her―no one did. Instead, every patron stood and detachedly watched her uncoordinated progress with mild interest, as if Logan's bizarre behavior and pathetic struggle to … _escape_ , was nothing to be alarmed about.

 _Wait -!_

Logan left her clutch purse behind. Her family photo was in there with the coins and medallion. In her attempt to backtrack and reclaim her clutch, her ankle twisted and she fell, pulling down tablecloths with their place settings, knocking aside tables and toppling chairs. She left a path of discord in her wake while drawing all attention to herself. Patrons strolled past her, muttering beneath their breath in exasperation and annoyance as they deftly avoided her.

Her self appointed mission was more complex and dangerous than Logan initially believed. No one was going to help her.

Logan's efforts to preserve John while simultaneously avenging her mother were in vain. And not just that, but foolish. She was no one compared to these crafty, immoral individuals.

But now she willingly and naively injected herself into the very corrupted belly of the beast and there was no way out. No where but straight into Death's door.

 _Life was a choice._

And she chose to come here.

Sprawled in a heap upon the floor, Logan felt gravity close in; it pushed her down. She couldn't lift her head, couldn't cry out for help. She was going to die here. Her father didn't know she was here, but John did.

Then everything…

And everyone…

Became quiet again.

 **And then black….**

 _Another lamb claimed in the lion's den_.

* * *

 **hello everyone! From here and on, things will be moving quite rapidly. We've set the foundation, you know all the characters and their capabilities, now the finale's on the horizon. buckle up, I should say?**

 **on another note, I just saw Blade Runner 2 and ohmygod Ryan Gosling. Also, are there any Constantine fans here?**


	30. Chapter 30

_Logan was in a parlor. It wasn't the parlor of her childhood home, but it was familiar_ ― _her heart and mind remembered, like a long forgotten dream._

 _The walls were made of recessed bookshelves that were filled with leather wrapped tomes and timeworn manuscripts. Old money ... and even older secrets._

 _The grand piano's bench easily accommodated two persons. Seated at her side was her mother, Jennifer._

" _Are you ready?"_

 _The delicate tenor of her mother's voice should have soothed and comforted her; instead, it sounded hollow, emotionless. Logan felt like a swarm of tiny spiders were crawling down her back._

 _Logan nodded._

 _Mechanically, she lightly placed her fingertips on the keys as she'd been taught. Against her rib cage, Logan's heart knocked. She kept her eyes upon the ivory keys, her head down and frightfully still. She didn't want to move, breathe, or even brave a glance towards the door, where freedom awaited. She prayed her father would come home soon._

 _Jennifer reached over and folded the music sheets closed, forcing Logan to recite the piece from memory._

" _Alright, begin."_

 _Under Jennifer's watchful eye, Logan placed her feet flat on the floor, and straightened her back. Wrists soft and in the neutral position, Logan's slender fingers traced over the keys lightly, like she'd rehearsed._

 _Taking a deep breath, she began._

 _Logan's foot depressed the una corda pedal; levers ascended and hammers struck the metal strings_ ― _softly, music filled the parlor, and the song rose, the haunting, melancholy tune drifted and fell in time to Logan's fingers. Switching to the sostenuto, the pedal raised the dampers, and the sound changed to grave, the deep tenors were laden in sadness and weeping cracks, broken and irreparable. Feeling the music, her ears attuned to the song, Logan closed her eyes tightly. Her fingertips unerringly found the keys; Logan's emotions set the tempo and her foot instinctively operated the levers, the sustaining pedal conveying the emotions she was feeling, until…_

 _She hit the wrong note._

 _Logan swiftly recovered, her brow furrowed as she fought against losing the harmony, her posture, or the notes drifting through her head. She hit another incorrect, jarring key, breaking the melody a second time._

 _This time, she could not recover fast enough._

 _Jennifer grasped Logan's ponytail and yanked. Her head snapped back painfully, throwing her off balance. The world spun and she fell back, prepared to embrace the hard floor; instead, she plunged into shockingly cold water; the dream taking a startling turn._

 _The water encased her, swallowed her whole and threw the bright sun above into a dancing blood yolk against the water's choppy surface. Something was atop her._

 _She couldn't rise._

 _She couldn't scream._

 _She couldn't fight her way towards the surface because someone was holding her down. Fingers as sharp as talons were anchored in her flesh, and slowly dragged her further from the surface - away from air and safety._

 _The dock wasn't too far, she remembered. It was a stroke or two away, but she was too small, too weak to fight off her offender._

 _Against the blazing sun light, tendrils of dark hair swirled with the currents of Logan's struggle; the same shade as hers._

 _Her mother's hair._

 _In Logan's small chest, her lungs burned for air while her heart raced like a caged animal._

 _Logan opened her mouth to scream, choking on lake water as her mother continued to hold her down._

 _She remembered this…_

 _She remembered this because her father… Her father was the one who…_

* * *

Logan jolted awake; hungrily gasping for air, the odd perspective of the unfamiliar room made no sense, until Logan realized she was lying prone upon an antique chaise lounge. Pinned beneath her, was her left arm, numbed from lying atop it; her right arm dangled over the edge of her makeshift bed, her knuckles and right knee rested on the floor like a blacked-out drunkard. The lingering drug left her groggy and lethargic.

Weakly, she lifted her aching head, disgusted to feel cold drool puddled beneath her cheek; Logan grimaced as she moved the numb limb from beneath her. Her eyelids felt heavy, and her eyes were dry and gritty. Logan attempted to rise; even if she could jump up, she'd only keel over. Logan's pained head swam, but she was thankful to be alive and that was worth any measure of optimism - until she caught sight of the man across from her.

 _Winston._

Logan froze, too stunned to move and still reeling from her feverish nightmare. Seated on the matching settee, Winston patiently waited for Logan to wake from her drug induced slumber. Logan closed her eyes tightly, and attempted to clear her vision of the hallucination before her. Unfortunately, _he_ was still there when she opened them. Like her nightmarish dream, she was in a parlor - but the walls were not dominated by books and other manners of literature. Mounted upon the dark paneled wood, were oil paintings depicting the colonial separatist soldiers' valiant battle for independence from British rule; the red coated, richly liveried Dragoons, with muskets aimed and sabers raised high, fought to beat back, subdue and triumph over the defiant rabble rousers; on another wall, an original photograph captured the early construction phase of Lady Liberty, and a timeless schematic of the original Model-T car was displayed nearby.

The dark, gothic decor starkly contrasted against the more modern architecture in the hotel's foyer. _Private quarters_ schemed in deep emerald walls, golden, engraved accents, and lavishly furnished with heavy, intricately carved wooden pieces.

An impressive hearth, wide and caked in soot from past fires yawned open to her left, giving the room a cold, neglected feel. Natural light washed the room gently from a window behind her and she could smell a faint medley of wine, cologne, and old leather.

After surveying her surroundings like a startled animal, Logan settled her baleful glare onto the manager.

"Don't look at me like that," Winston suggested softly, "The fact that you even _have_ the ability to awaken, should tell you: I refrained myself."

 _And to think she almost trusted him…_

Logan was relieved she hadn't revealed the actual truth _._ If she disclosed John's well being, she would surely have awakened bound and gagged, and then been tortured for days until she cracked.

He lowered his eyes onto his lap. One leg was crossed over the opposite knee; Logan noticed his attire changed from what she could recall, informing her at least a day had passed, perhaps even more. As for his statement, it was ignored. Was he expecting her gratitude? Absolutely not. Quickly, Logan evaluated herself. Minus her heels, she was clad in her same, albeit wrinkled dress; with great relief, save for her still befuddled head, her body wasn't scuffed up or sore. Logan reached up to palm her collar; John's ring was gone.

 _Shit,_ she chided inwardly.

Assuming Winston was lost in thought, Logan slowly sat up; stricken and wary, her eyes locked onto the older men. Unable to discern the items he held in his hands, the manager contemplated how Logan managed to _acquire_ them.

A killer wouldn't hesitate to declare their deeds, nor would they gather such items like precious relics. A killer wouldn't hang the victims wedding ring around her neck or would they?

Lowering her eyes, Logan evaluated her situation. There was nothing securing her in place; she could make a run for it.

"Where did you get these?" Between his thumb and index finger, Winston held up a gleaming coin.

"I stole them," her voice rasped, finally breaking her silence.

"From who?"

That was none of his business. When he realized that was her answer, he continued.

"And this?" He swapped the coin for the medallion.

"Also stolen."

Logan felt her heart beating through her temple and even her tongue. Her eyes darted between Winston and the door.

"From who?"

 _My father,_ Logan thought, reluctant to enmesh Caldron into this … _unfortunate_ situation - nor did she want to discover a reason to.

"What about this?" Winston reached into his breast pocket and produced John's ring. The morning light struck its surface and it shone brightly, like a winking star.

Winston's stern expression had very little effect upon Logan; the drug she ingested still coursed through her veins, and wreaked havoc upon her empty stomach. Her nausea hadn't subsided either. Instead, it steadily worsened, until Logan could do nothing but focus on maintaining her physical bearing. It took everything to keep from gagging or heaving all the contents of her stomach. It made her body flush hot.

"I have many questions, Miss Ryder." Winston muttered solemnly, "I suggest you make yourself comfortable and answer them."

Lifting her head, Logan drew a deep breath and exhaled defeatedly. In addition to feeling markedly unwell, she was tired. Very, _very_ tired.

Returning his attention to the medallion, he asked. "Do you know what this is?"

Logan peered up beneath her lashes towards the medallion and shook her head.

"It's a Marker," he continued. "It's a symbol of loyalty that demands a blood oath. It cannot be broken and requires _**all**_ debts to be paid in full. Should you fail to do so... _you die_. Should you partake it anything other than settling the debt, you die. Should you _run_ from it...…"

"You die." Logan croaked, finishing his sentence.

A pregnant pause stretched between the two strangers. Somewhere within the room, a clock ticked. Logan felt every starting report through her limbs and down to her fingertips and toes.

"I've shared something with you, Miss Ryder. I would like for you to share something with me."

She lifted her throbbing head and quietly waited.

Logan knew she could be difficult, but it would be unwise. Not a soul knew of her whereabouts. Her phone was missing. Her car keys - everything on her persons was seized.

"Okay," she conceded quietly. The words tasted foul, like betrayal. "What do you want to know?"

The Continental's occupants lived by their own rules. No common laws claimed their obedience; Logan wondered if the assassins also had their own hierarchy; they simply watched as she staggered about like a bewildered drunk. She pondered Winston's rank in their order, for they collectively and unquestioningly deferred to him - as if they ascribed great authority to the older man. Logan was painfully aware that Winston could have easily killed her. He could have slit her throat, disemboweled her, carved out her heart even and fed it to the crows while she slept.

But he didn't; she kept that in mind. At the very least, she could cooperate. It was too late to wonder what she could have done differently. It was too late for a lot of things.

Winston shifted to a more comfortable position and cleared his throat.

Then he asked _the_ solemn question:

"Did you kill Jonathan?"

Regardless of what Logan previously declared, they _both_ knew the answer.

Winston had the marker, the coins, and most telling of all - John's ring. Flexing her jaw, she looked down and away, embarrassed by her foolish, brazen claim.

"I presumed," Winston concluded, clearly understanding. "Then who did?"

Another moment came and went.

The clock ticked; she felt it jarring her nerves, like a shock of electricity.

He could have fed her to the crows…

She woke today - unsullied and intact, and that alone was enough.

"He's not dead," she admitted.

The manager stiffened, and then visibly sagged with relief, before he gave a low, soft chuckle. Relieved, he pressed a hand over the lapels of his waistcoat, evidently pleased with the news.

Logan furrowed her brow, flummoxed. "I don't understand. Isn't that what you want?"

"Heavens no!" Winston assured her. "I believed you intended to collect the bounty and be on your way. You made quite the show."

" _You,_ " she corrected him, "Made the show."

Why hadn't Aurelio mentioned _that? Winston_ was on _her_ side. _Aurelio's_ side. _Caldron's!_

More importantly, he was on **John Wick's** side.

She was nearly eliminated by friendly fire.

"You said you nearly killed me," she reminded him. "Why didn't you?"

* * *

Aurelio was nursing the remnants of his drink when his phone began to ring.

At first, he couldn't find it, and the shrill issuance quickly became an annoyance.

Drunkenly pushing aside stacks of papers, and surrounded with overturned hazmat tubs, whose plastic shrink wrap was strewn across the floor, he haphazardly checked beneath his desk, and along his chair, in case he was sitting on it. His typically clean and thoroughly organized office was in disarray; Aurelio was engulfed in misery amidst the uncharacteristic clutter.

He sought escape in his work; pushing himself and his crew, the night was long and they completed work orders and invoices well ahead of their projected finish times. Their patrons would be very pleased albeit, ignorant to the suffering that launched such impressive workload. Aurelio scrawled a note on his calendar, reminding himself to compensate his exhausted team in addition to their usual bonuses. His men did not grumble at the hard pace their boss worked them, and they needn't ask; they knew he was mourning.… but Aurelio could not escape the pain of losing his friend.

He was determined to numb and assuage his grief through his friends Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. No matter how many fingers of whiskey and the bottles he consumed, like his phone, consolation was just beyond his grasp. Only a day had passed since he received the news.

Finally, Aurelio found it stuffed between the cushions of his office chair.

Barely glancing at the unknown number, he swiped the screen with his thumb and said,

"Yeah - Aurelio speakin'."

"Aurelio," the deep tenor cut through the static and his dazed mind. "It's John."

The mechanic's hot blood surged, and a shock of sobriety cascaded down his spine as he squeezed the phone to his ear. "John?"

"Yeah." his friend's voice was unmistakable.

"Holy _fuck_ ," Aurelio breathed; flustered, a grimy hand clutched the side of his now throbbing head. "I-I thought you were dead. She s-said you were dead!" There was so much Aurelio wanted to say, but the many drinks clouded his mind. He simply couldn't find the words or get them out fast enough.

The line went quiet; Aurelio looked at the screen, checking to see if the call dropped. It hadn't.

"John - John y'still there?!" The mechanic feared in his polluted state, he had imagined the entire thing.

"Where is she, Aurelio?" came John's steady voice. Grave. Real. _Alive._

John managed to convey the gravity of the situation with just a few words. Aurelio swallowed and blinked; the spirits-induced lethargy was beginning to dissipate; he understood now.

"At the Continental."


	31. Chapter 31

"You cannot fully appreciate the repercussions of your … _actions_." Winston stated; he did not bother to elaborate, but she certainly felt like pressing the issue.

Logan reflected upon his somber words as he studied something hidden within his hands.

Of course she understood _somewhat_ the severity of her actions. She knew John was to be protected, she understood he'd drawn the proverbial short-straw. Anything else, she was clueless. From the moment John crossed her threshold, dripping in blood and rainwater, she was grasping for insight and understanding. Little had changed since then. What Logan discovered, was how woefully and inadequately prepared she was to negotiate her way within John's treacherous coterie.

"Trust me when I say I fully intended to remove you from this earth and leave _nothing_ of you for your family to mourn. Ah, but for the coins and the Marker … The _ring_ certainly gave me pause. However, if not for the _picture_ , Miss Ryder ..." Winston's pale eyes took on a dangerous gleam as his ominous words hung in the air.

Logan swallowed thickly, fully aware of his thinly veiled threat.

"Jonathan is a remarkable man," Winston continued with an indulgent, almost proud smile. "Every child has a moment in life, when they realize _they're afraid,_ that there are _things_ and _people_ they should avoid. Sometimes ... they see something in the dark, but weren't quite certain what it was, or what it is they glimpsed. That fear follows them as they mature; the uncertainty, the _unknown thing_ in the dark - staring at them, hidden within the thick shadows. Their fears have become a _real and tangible_ terror. As adults, it never truly goes away. It changes, from monster to man." He set aside the item in his lap: Logan's family portrait. "That _monster —_ for the lot of our kind, is **John Wick.** " He turned his icy gaze back to her and laced his fingers together. "But there are _many_ like him, even if they do fall short of true glory."

True glory _,_ she knew, was the crown and throne claimed by John alone.

She eyed the picture. A knot constricting her throat. "So what does that have to do with me still being here?" The picture stopped him but how? More importantly, why? Was there something or someone in the picture that What spared her life?

Winston smiled, pleased with her query.

"You created a ripple in this proverbial pool of blood; John has affected _many_ lives, both for good _and_ terrible. This is merely a chemical reaction, a long, harrowing chain of events. They will hunt for you like they hunted for him."

She wondered who _they_ were, the same perpetually ubiquitous fiends that had chopped up her mother?

"What about the picture?" She reminded him, eager to know why of all things she possessed it was _that_ that saved her life.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The picture," she gave it a hard stare before shifting it towards Winston. "Why are you so fond of it?"

Winston smirked. "You poor child. You truly have _no idea._ " He drew quiet, ending _that_ vein of discussion.

Flexing her jaw in aggravation, Logan sank back into her seat as a wave of nausea overcame her. Too much was happening; she needed to be still - to breathe and think.

Winston watched her carefully.

The room around them grew quiet, sans the clock. If under different circumstances, she probably would have found the dwelling charming and distinguished. Given it more appreciation unfortunately…

"I can't stay here," she told the manager simply, as she slowly and carefully stood. She got what she wanted and that was news of John's death out. If they came for her, that gave him and her father time to plan.

She plucked up her heels and moved towards the door. On her way past, she picked up her clutch, hopeful they still held her car keys.

Everything else was no use to her now. And after the nightmare, she really didn't want to see or think about Jennifer. She only needed the coins to get _into_ the Continental, now that she was here, she wanted out. The _Marker,_ well that was something else entirely.

The picture… she thought, _fuck that picture._

"You could go out there," Winston called over his shoulder as she reached for the door. "But you won't last." The warning went unheeded.

Her job here was done.

She opened the door and said over her shoulder,

"If they're out hunting for _me_ then they're _not_ hunting for him."

* * *

The door to his study slammed shut. Winston listened to the steady ticking of the grandfather clock against the wall; in his mind's eye, he replayed and reflected upon the young woman's words, the subtle nuances and telling gestures of her body language.

Miss Ryder was not telling him everything.

But neither was Winston.

Upon the end table was her cell phone, the coins and the Marker. At his side was the picture she left behind. If she had asked for it, he would have obliged. Because she didn't had Winston wondering if there were troubling waters between the Ryder family.

He picked up the phone and powered it on.

The screen lit up; as it went through its reboot, Winston made himself an espresso. The machine hummed and whirred, heating his drink and pouring it into a dainty, white cup seconds later.

A tentative sip first, then he returned to the phone.

There were several notifications, including text messages, voice mails, and missed calls crowding the screen. He dismissed them all, found the last call made and dialed the number.

It was answered mid-ring.

"Logan?" The voice shook, desperate and familiar. "Logan, where are you?"

"Mr. Ryder, good morning." Winston smiled, turning towards the window. Beyond it, the towering city strained into the sky like crooked teeth. It was a clear gorgeous morning. The sun was ascending a cloudless sky, the pigeons strutted along the cement, searching the manicured shrubs for morsels. The courtyard was abundant in vegetation and blooms, swaying with a gentle breeze.

And most of all, _John-alive._

The familiar voice, back from the dead, sighed in defeat.

"Winston, please." Ryder's voice cracked. "Where's my daughter?"

"She just left," Winston muttered, smirking. That answered _that_ question. "May I speak to Jonathan?"

There was a clattering on the other end, like the phone was dropped. Winston waited. Unbeknownst to him, he was worrying. The fingers on his free hand worried the hem of his waistcoat, adjusting and readjusting. He checked his watch. Neither Miss Ryder or her father depicted any indications of deception. But he couldn't stall the pessimism.

A few seconds later, a new voice came on the line.

"Hello Winston."

Relief washed over him like a cool breeze, steadying his heart.

Winston smiled again. It was going to be a _good_ day.

"My dear Jonathan." The kingpin said softly. "I thought you were dead."

"Not yet." John replied.

There was a pause.

"Where is she?"

"She just left." Winston answered, "Where are you?"

"Texas." John replied, "Why did she say to you?"

Winston was thoughtful. "That she killed you; to call off the search. But we both know the Camorra will want a body; they always do." Winston paused, contemplating. "Did you put her up to this?"

"I didn't," John admitted.

That surprised Winston, especially now that he knew John currently resided with Mr. Ryder, an old associate who all this time Winston believed to be deceased; a trendy affair, it seemed. He thought of the younger, fairer Ryder, just as pigheaded and brazen as her father. Now that his suspicions were confirmed, he could see their similarities. The freckles and pale eyes. Miss Ryder's hair was a dark brown, but he could see hues of red against the sunrise.

 _Funny,_ he mused. _The apple truly never falls far from the tree._

Perhaps he could let the past go. Water under the bridge, as they say. If it meant helping John survive, Winston could bend the rules.

Without rules, though… A bridge he'd rather not cross, he thought. If word of his corroboration reached _any_ ears...

Sighing, Winston sat his coffee down and said, "Nonetheless, she's here and the word is spreading. My stipulations remain, Jonathan." He paused, allowing his words to gain weight and severity. "You are _still_ ex-communicado, but I will do what I can."

"Thank you," John said.

"Fare well, Jonathan; I have several calls to make."


	32. Chapter 32

For New York City, the traffic was unusually light, and Logan returned to her motel without encountering the gridlock of the typical morning commute, or even a red light.

Paranoid as ever, she kept a watchful eye on her rearview mirror, but no vehicles tailed her. Would she able to discern _if_ she was being followed? Was it as obvious as the movies portrayed? Logan wasn't certain, but she remained cautiously optimistic. Waking from her unnatural slumber was a great relief. Walking out of Winston's _private_ office and emerging unscathed from the proverbial vipers' nest was an incredible feat itself; perhaps her charmed streak would continue and she wasn't being followed.

Arriving at her hotel she parked behind the structure and entered a breeze way between buildings; barefoot, she slowly and carefully tiptoed across the cold grainy concrete, her heels hanging from her fingertips. Logan unlocked her room, and checked one last time for prying eyes, before she quickly and quietly slipped inside.

The room was pitch black. Coupled with her paranoia, Logan's senses were heightened. What if someone was lurking inside her room, waiting in the shadows?

Fretting, she quickly slapped the light switch on, and the empty room revealed itself.

Her nostrils flared with relief; respiring quickly, Logan was on the verge of hyperventilating as she quickly slid the deadbolt of the flimsy door home, tossed her heels aside and peeled off her dress. She was drained emotionally and physically. She needed to shower and sleep.

Logan shuddered as she reflected upon her dream. It _must_ have been just that: a dream. Her mind replayed the _realness and terror_ she felt when submerged beneath the water. The despair, confusion and feeling of utter betrayal, to be rendered completely powerless, by the hands of someone she trusted, no less.

 _But Logan Ryder knew better._

The memory of her drowning was faulty at best, yet instinctively, Logan knew her father was the one to pull her from the water and resuscitate her. She vaguely recalled him sobbing hysterically after she revived, completely overwhelmed by the miracle before him.

 _Her own mother — drowning her child?_

That wasn't possible … or was it?

Logan knew Jennifer was not the best or most tenderhearted example of motherhood; she attributed it to Jennifer's privileged upbringing— to high society breeding at its finest. Shaping and refining a girl into cultured womanhood emphasized class and eloquence, not gentle nurturing or sentimentality. Logan wholeheartedly believed Jennifer desired a marble statue for a daughter, an automaton devoid of emotion, contrite and meek. That would never be Logan. She was too much like her father.

If it wasn't a dream …

Did the drug-induced coma unlock her mind and release a traumatizing memory deeply buried to protect her sanity? _No_ , Logan assured herself. That was a rabbit hole she dared not explore.

The estrangement between them spanned years and further strained their tenuous relationship; the maternal figure every little girl desperately needed was nonexistent in Jennifer Ryder. Furthermore, Caldron made Logan believe the world was after her. If it was because of her mother's transgression, she was uncertain what her father's motive was. His overprotective, incessant safeguarding of her fueled that belief.

Caldron shaped and forged his only child into a fiercely independent and self sufficient individual, raising her to be strong, to stand alone; affection was rationed—a hug or terms of endearment were treasured and worth striving for. What approval Logan received in abundance were grunts or nods of approval, or additional tactical and weapons training. She quickly learned that emotional displays were considered signs of weakness, and tears were a luxury Logan was not allowed. What Caldron believed would protect her when he could not physically ensure her safety, unfortunately, backfired; the result was the hardened, undemonstrative and distrustful woman who desperately craved and wanted love - or as the licensed professionals referred to as _insecurity_ and _attachment avoidance._

Caldron's well intentioned but misguided beliefs were the extreme, polar opposite of Jennifer. Unlike Jennifer, Caldron wasn't trying to kill her, he was teaching her to fight for her life, to survive. Of course, that was before he, like his wife, abandoned her; Logan decided that loving someone was too costly emotionally. She'd rather deny it, if it kept loved ones within reach. If not, the absence of love preserved her sanity when the inevitable did transpire: they're departure.

The dull throb at the back of her eyes spread, forming sharp daggers of pain at her temples. Her nausea returned with a vengeance, and she padded into the bathroom; there was only one solution for this.

Pulling the toilet seat up with one hand, she dropped to her knees and stuck a finger down her throat with the other. Shoulders hunched, she gagged and her stomach clenched; the sickness rose, and Logan performed the same motion again, until her mouth slicked with saliva.

Or more time. She shoved her fingers against the back of her throat and puked.

Bile the color of her drink from the Continental splashed against the white porcelain.

When _was_ the last time she ate? It didn't help matters that her stomach's contents was only the sugary concoction and _whatever_ drug Winston slipped into it.

Time passed while Logan emptied her stomach; and she finished, the nausea abated.

Logan brushed her teeth, showered and dressed for bed. She'd sleep the day off and leave for Texas at dusk.

 _Or maybe Colorado._

 _Or Washington…_

* * *

Despite the late hour, the city emanated enough light to stave off nightfall. Against the indigo sky, incessant bugs bounced off orange parking lot lights. A stray cat jogged towards a nearby, rank smelling dumpster that sat askew in the dirty motel parking lot. A Crown Victoria entered the lot, and double parked behind several cars. The driver and passenger exited, leaving the headlights on, and the engine still humming.

They approached room 208. The taller, broader man leaned in and pressed a listening ear to its surface. The second man counted to three.

The first explosion jarred Logan from her sleep. The shotgun's cocking report punctuated the ejection of the spent shell from its chamber. By the second blast, she was scrambling across her bed, hoping to put it between herself and whatever calamity that chewed through her door.

The third shot blew the motel door wide open, and threw it back against the wall with a loud, startling clap. Wood cracked and splinters spewed onto the carpet. A jettisoned cartridge rattled hollowly against the concrete.

The parking lot lights spilled in, and two black silhouettes entered her room.

Hunkering down, she dumped herself between the wall and bed frame with the pistol she kept on her nightstand. Everything else was packed sans the small sidearm. _Just in case_ Winston's warnings were true.

 _Thank God,_ she praised internally, _Thank fucking God._

Logan had seven rounds, and one already chambered. It was enough for both of them, but she knew at least one had a shotgun; both were surely armed.

Another blast interrupted her thoughts and shredded the cheap comforter across the bed. A peppering of tightly concentrated holes blew through the wall just above her head. Her ears rang from the blast's concussion as she scrambled beneath the bed.

Then the mattress dipped under his heavy weight, making the bed springs groan. Another round went off directly above her. The shot blasted through the mattress, the hollow box spring, and came out the other side, several inches from her shoulder. The ringing in her ears was deafening now. It took Logan's entire willpower not to panic and scream. She was trapped.

The shot missed, but a direct hit was inevitable, for there was rapidly disappearing mattress between her and his barrel, and limited space for her to maneuver around in.

A second pair of boots came into view beneath the bed as he strolled past. She watched them migrate towards the bathroom then, kick open the door. Obviously, it was empty. Behind him was a small closet. He turned and yanked it open.

"Where is she?" he asked.

The man above her chuckled darkly.

"Let's see…." he drawled.

The distended mattress recovered its normal shape, and then suddenly dipped extensively again and again. The springs on either sides squeaked in rhythm. Each bounce knocked the mattress against her backside, expelling the breath from her lungs, crushing her against the rough carpeted floor. She tried squirming out of the way.

They found her.

The boots near the bathroom returned.

She was cornered.

Twisting around, Logan extended her arms, took aim and shot the man twice in the same leg. A howl filled the room as his knee gave out. He dropped and Logan moved, wiggling to the far end of the bed as the second man began emptying his shotgun into the mattress with four quick blasts.

Logan scooted back as fast as space would allow, taking several pieces of flying debris to the shoulder and face. Though superficial wounds, they burned exposed skin, and her adrenaline level surged, nearly abating her pain. Each shot was closer than the last, and sent Logan's heart slamming against her chest.

 _Click, click, click…_

Like the wounded man's agony, the sounds were music to her ears; Logan crawled out from beneath the bed. She emerged from the opposite end, aimed and fired two more rounds. The eruption of pistol shots joined the cacophony of shotgun blasts that still hung in the air. Each violent discharge emitted a flash of light in the darkness. She swept her night sights across and fired two more into the first man's flank.

His anguished cries stopped, and he slumped onto his side, gasping for air with shallow breaths. She must have hit a lung. Blood poured from between his fingers, ink-black in the shadows.

The second man charged her.

He was colossal and bellowed with fury like a wild animal; the heavy metallic tang of blood filled the air with his war cry.

Overwhelmed, Logan redirected her gun up and shot two more times. The rounds met his stomach; he faltered, but kept staggering forward.

She aimed at his head and pulled the trigger.

 _Click…._

"Oh, _shit_ -" Logan breathed, bracing for impact.

Another shot rang out.

Not from her.

Not from _him._

His knees gave out and he collapsed onto her. She caught the brunt of his weight and they both dropped. Logan was sprawled on her back, with her dead assailant's carcass atop her.

Warm blood sickeningly trickled from an exit wound through his left temple, and onto her face. Out of reflex, she pursed her lips tightly and turned her face away. The bullet had slammed into the back right portion of his skull and exploded out the other side. His eyes were fixed open and unfocused — dead.

 _But someone else was here now_.

Panicking beneath the heavy weight, Logan grunted as she heaved the corpse off of her, pulling herself out from under slacked limbs. She was looking towards the first man for his weapon.

"Relax," a man's voice purred, "We're not here to kill you."

Her eyes darted towards the doorway where two silhouettes stood; a male and a female.

The smaller figure stepped past him.

A slender redhead. Logan recognized her from the Continental. The bartender.

The one who brought Logan her drink….

 _The one who…._

"It's alright," the redhead smiled gently. Logan must have looked wild for the woman displayed both her palms in surrender and spoke softly. "It's okay, Winston sent us. We're here to help."

* * *

 **Happy Halloween everyone!**


	33. Chapter 33

Winston received yet another call; incessant, they were. Hardly a moment passed before the next call came.

With the speed and wrath of a devouring wildfire, the news of John Wick's demise spread internationally — to _all_ Underground factions, in less than twelve hours. So many _Associates_ called to offer Winston their condolences, as if he was the executor on John's behalf. Others simply wanted to know if the rumors were, indeed, true.

 _Could it be?_ The _Baba Yaga_ is dead? _Who did it? How were they capable? Who will rise and take his place? Will there ever be a more infamous, ruthless, and respected professional such as himself?_

Winston answered the call with his characteristic indifference, "Winston."

"It's Wayne."

"Wayne...?" The kingpin echoed, feigning ignorance, though he knew his caller well.

"Ryder," the voice spoke tightly.

Winston's brow lifted, his interest and curiosity piqued. He certainly wasn't expecting _this_ call.

"Mr. _Caldron Wayne Ryder-_ -" He was toying with the man. A smile threatened the corner of his lips.

"Yes."

"That's a name I haven't heard for years," he said.

Winston smiled in mild amusement then glanced at the portrait of Miss Ryder and her parents. Over two decades, he surmised. But who kept a running tally on the dead?

"I wanted to keep it that way," Ryder muttered in exasperation. "But I'm not too smart and I never learn my lesson."

" _Or complete your Markers_." The smile fell from Winston's lips.

Ryder took a breath to speak, but held his words back. Silence encompassed them. What was there left to say? _Ryder, back from the grave, unable to finish his task, and now wanted more out of a bargain than he could afford._

"Fool me once," Winston drawled calmly, staring at the thin wisp of steam rising from his espresso. "Fool me twice…."

Winston simply couldn't help himself now. He picked up his cup and took a tip. _Things were certainly panning out nicely_ , he thought. So long as the fairer Ryder survived long enough to see to his plan's end. But if she perished before Caldron made his heroic appearance, then... one more body to bury.

"Please," the single word jumped from Ryder's mouth in a strangled whisper. " _Jesus Christ,_ Winston. Please, _please,_ don't hurt her."

Winston fell nothing in the implore. Not a twinge of heartfelt guilt or crack within his resolve. _This_ was the oath they swore by. There were _rules_ to be followed or the very foundation they constructed upon would crumble and the very empire would collapse.

 _No, he wouldn't hurt her because..._

"It's not her life I want."

* * *

Logan remained on the floor, flanked by two dead men.

Blood, still warm from the wound, soaked the carpet, and created a solid black shadow beneath her. The air was thick with a macabre medley of gunpowder, hot metal and the coppery tang of blood; the blood spattered on Logan's face felt cooler against her skin as the night air dried it, and her ears still rang from the firefight. Clenched tightly in her hand, the slide of her pistol was locked to the rear, exposing the warm, empty chamber. The silence was deafening. Her frantic gaze darted the brass and red shotgun shells that littered the small room and the two additional figures that arrived; as far as Logan could tell, the imminent threat was neutralized, but the violent cacophony that erupted within her small motel room would inevitably summon law enforcement officials, with reinforcements en route.

"I know you," Logan growled, pulling herself up onto unsteady legs, "You laced my drink."

Standing, she faced them; unmindful of her state of undress.

The flame haired woman winced, ignoring Logan's rabid, motley appearance; her companion averted his gaze from the younger woman clad in a large, loose-fitted t-shirt barely covering her panties, and blood soaked socks.

"I had to-I'm sorry."

"She tends to do that," the man muttered; lingering in the doorway, he looked all ways, searching for hidden gunmen.

The redhead shot him a chastising look. When she swung her gaze to Logan, it was gone.

"We must go," she implored, "You can't stay here."

Logan eyed her suspiciously, "Alright, then I'll leave."

Simple enough, she thought. Her stuff was packed already.

Stepping over the large corpse on her right, she reached for her duffle bags.

The woman glanced at the man, who continued to peer out into the parking lot. Dressed in a bespoke grey suit, his hair slicked back, Logan could see the neck tattoos creeping up beneath his crisply pressed collar. Logan instinctively knew the pair before her screamed _trouble_ ; she reached for the pair of shorts she set out.

"We were instructed to get you," the man said, "You're coming with us." Logan immediately identified his Russian accent, _and_ that he wasn't giving her an option to leave on her own accord.

 _Who the hell is he -?!_ She thought.

Logan resented his authoritative tone and shot him a look over her shoulder, only to be pinned in place with his even harder, menacing stare. Addy's silence and strained, grave expression gave his words weight and clarity. Logan glared in response. If she wasn't safe here, she had no problem heading back to Texas, or Washington, or even Colorado. But she wasn't leaving with _any_ of Winston's henchmen, much less back to the very establishment that nearly sent her to an early grave.

"I'm not going back to the Continental," Logan stated firmly. "I don't know why he sent you in the first place." She slid her glare onto the redhead.

"We don't have time to explain," the woman pleaded, stepping forward with her hands laced together impatiently. "You're not safe here; _we_ are not safe here. We need to return to the hotel."

Logan took an involuntary step back and said, "I'm not going back there."

"Please," the redhead asked. "You're _safe_ -"

"We're running out of time. Addy, _stop_." The man cut her off.

He turned away from the door, crossed the room in two strides, and stood before Logan. He glared down at her, and Logan sullenly, stubbornly met it with her own, despite his menacing stance, and fact he was almost a foot taller than she. His groomed, thick beard and neatly slicked, brown hair belied his fierce expression. The pleasant smell of his expensive cologne washed over Logan, who found it difficult to maintain her derision, especially when he looked and smelled so nice.

Her job here was done. She stirred the proverbial pot - the news spread, people were up in arms about John's death. Why wouldn't they just let her leave?

"You're out of ammo," he hissed, "In nothing but a shirt and underwear. You look _ridiculous._ "

The scathing insult sounded markedly worse with his distinctive accent. Logan's ears burned hot as her anger bloomed.

" _You have no idea what's coming._ You can try to run on your own, but they _will_ find you, and do _unimaginable_ things to that pretty little face . . ." He spat, but his words did not make Logan feel pretty at all. His pale eyes contemptuously raked over her darkening expression, then lowered to her neck, and traveled down the planes of her t-shirt, where her chest heaved, hot with impotent anger, before ending at her bare legs and bloody socks. " _And other parts."_

Logan saw a flash of images. The battered rectangular wooden box. The circling vultures overhead. Hacked body parts; the crude, dismembered remains of her mother. She wisely decided to heed his fatalistic warning.

A glint of orange light refracted off the barrel of his stainless steel pistol when he turned away, and strolled to the shattered doorway. He stepped out into the night air, glanced left and then right, before nonchalantly settling his gaze onto the redhead. Sirens wailed over the voiceless drone of the city. Logan wondered if they were coming to her.

"We leave _now_." he said, sotto voce.

* * *

They went by Addy and Abram. From their body language - Addy often rested her hand along his forearm- Logan correctly deduced the woman's uncertain attraction to the older man, who, unfortunately, was clueless. Logan sympathized with him; when it came to the finer points of attraction and romance, she was just as daft.

Abram claimed to be an old, mutual Associate of both Winston and John. He did not provide further details; interestingly, Logan wondered why he bristled under her curious gaze. From experience, Logan knew Addy worked the hotel's wet bar. She learned the auburn haired woman slipped drugs, and other sedatives into people's drinks, by order of it's kingpin - Winston. Logan deemed the practice as shady, given that Continental grounds were considered to be absolutely neutral and safe territory.

Despite the pressing circumstances, Logan was relieved and encouraged to find other people willing to help John Wick, regardless of the impressive bounty on his head. Perhaps she wasn't insane to come to New York City and stir the pot.

"You're going to ride with us," Addy said as she helped Logan quickly gather her things.

Logan paused, the duffle hoisted midway to her shoulder. "What about my truck?" It was her father's, and she didn't want to part with it.

"What about it?"

"I can't leave it," she snapped, irritated with having to explain herself while she peeled off her blood-soaked socks. Her toes were stained a morbid red, a wave of nausea rolled in her stomach.

"It can stay."

"No, it can't." Logan declared; she shoved her feet into a pair of tennis shoes and snatched up her car keys. The truck was not staying.

"Okay, fine."

It didn't seem like an elaborate ruse to kidnap her; they could have killed her, but didn't. Also, they were taking her back to Winston, another person who could have killed her, but didn't.

Logan stopped short of the doorway. One hand gripped her truck keys. The other held the duffle bag's strap.

What if, Logan thought, Winston changed his mind, and now wanted her returned to the hotel so he could finish the job? Logan didn't mention the small arsenal stowed in the tool box. She wasn't taking unnecessary chances with them.

People were after her, with guns blazing. Addy and Abram had a prime opportunity to kill her when she was stuck under the heavy-set man. Winston could have fed her to the birds, but he let her go. Addy and Abram could have let the man bludgeon her to death, if it weren't for Abram pulling the trigger…

She needed to trust them, even if it went against everything she implicitly believed.

As they made their way outside, Logan bitterly concluded despite her survival and martial arts skills, tactical and weapons training, she was very easy to kill.

* * *

They were stuck in rush hour traffic - the infamous New York City gridlock. In all directions, roads were congested with taxis, buses and cars. Pedestrians and bicycle riding couriers flowed between idling vehicles lining the streets, in an unending current of humanity.

Inch by literal inch, they made progress. Addy rode with Logan in her truck, following Abram, who led the way. Logan presumed Addy came along to prevent her from veering off on her own, as if personally escorting her could stop Logan from doing what she wanted; the revolver strapped beneath her seat would help even Logan's odds, should her situation became unfavorable.

Every street light glared an angry red; people hurriedly walked across, and in between traffic, regardless of who had the right of way. To be in the city was as unnerving as it was over-populated.

Logan squeezed the steering wheeling impatiently; beside her, Addy sat quietly in her seat, unperturbed by their standstill, and stared calmly at the towering skyscrapers. They agreed to follow him back to the Continental.

"The city that never sleeps," Addy muttered softly, star gazing as night fell.

Logan ignored the comment. She knew they were on borrowed time. Those searching for her were probably scouting the motel grounds. If they knew what vehicle she drove, Logan was either smart at moving it, or stupid for placing herself in the midst of traffic, like a sitting duck.

The light turned green; in front of them, Abram's dark green Gran Torino pulled forward. Logan eased off the brakes and rolled forward, easing into the intersection. She braked hard, when several pedestrians stepped out onto the crosswalk. Abram had cleared the intersection and was continuing on, when, from nowhere, a vehicle slammed into the passenger side of the truck.

Glass exploded into the cab, from both the passenger's side and the rear window. The cab lurched; despite their seatbelts, the impact forcibly tossed Logan and Addy about the cab like ragdolls. Logan's head slammed against the window, sending bursts of light dancing across her eyes.

Stunned, the world became submerged, as if she was underwater. Immediately, her mother came to mind, spiking Logan's panic. She shook her head to clear it. Through the mental fog, bystanders gathered to gawk at the wreckage, while others hurried on their way. The engine hissed and smoke rose from beneath the twisted hood. She felt Addy against her, alive but hurt.

She opened her eyes, and watched the world oscillate, before righting itself. A warmth bloomed down Logan's face. Logan touched her face and winced. When she drew hand back, blood coated her fingers. She squeezed one eye shut as blood seeped into it, blurring her already distorted vision.

The driver's side door was yanked open, and Abram appeared. He worked quickly; unbuckling her, he pulled Logan from the lopsided cab.

"We must go," he barked, helping her stand. Still dazed, Logan tried to remain, while seeing through one bruised and rapidly swelling eye.

"Addy! Addy, get up!"

Logan turned her head as Addy, stunned and battered, crawled across the truck bench toward them. She fell out of the vehicle, almost landing in broken glass, but caught herself in time. The dazed woman staggered forward, nodding towards Abram.

"I'm alright," she said.

Abram wasted no time. He pulled Logan along behind him; Abram's car made it through the intersection seconds before the other car ran the red light and crashed into Logan's truck. The distance wasn't far, but there was already a crowd of witnesses watching Abram, Addy, and Logan flee the scene. Cursing in Russian, he hurried them towards his car, even if meant dragging Logan when she stumbled. Addy was close behind them when -

A gunshot rang out.

 _Then another._

 _And another._

The bullets whizzed past their heads and ricocheted off the tail end of Abram's Gran Torino, causing flashes of sparks that sent a wave of hysteria rippling through the gathered crowd of people. The bystanders and curious onlookers yelped and screamed as they scattered, covering their heads as they ducked and sheltered wherever they could. Unfortunately, this only served to fully expose the trio to hostile fire.

At this very moment, Logan finally understood the severity of her actions.

Breaking into a run, they reached the car and Abram pushed Logan into the back while Addy limped towards the passenger side. Sinking into the driver's seat, Abram shoved it into gear, peeled out and began weaving through traffic.

As the city lights flew past, Logan popped up from the back seat. The rear view mirror gave her a clear view of her disheveled state. Her hair was a mess and there was a slit along her eyebrow, a bruised, bloody knot already forming.

Abram and Addy shared a look Logan could only gather as a quick inspection of one another. The heavy rise and fall of their shoulders mirrored her own.

Logan twisted around and silently watched the crash shrink into the distance from the back window. Her belongings were in the truck - her clothing, money, identification, and all the weapons her father had given her.

If they didn't know who she was before, they did now.

* * *

 **Dra9onf7yz: thank you for your kind and rare review!**

 **Guest(s): I'm so glad! Sometimes, I stress myself out writing these.**

 **Happy Marine Corps birthday to any devildogs that may cross this story, but we all know yall can't read!**

 **jkjk.**

 **Also, Happy early Veteran's day. Thank you for your service.**


	34. Chapter 34

Save for the ever vigilant bellhops, the Continental was peculiarly devoid of its patrons, and silent as a crypt. The shattering emission of the crash, the volley of gunfire, and the heavy heartbeat thrumming inside Logan's chest was forgotten when the hotel's doors closed behind them; calming serenity wrapped around their senses and cocooned them in deafening silence. Quickly, Abram walked towards the front desk, mindful of the barkeep, who was more interested in Logan's well being, who was forever grateful for the woman's concerns. What little time had passed, she quickly began to realize their intentions were true; Logan wondered to what extent the unlikely pair were involved with this _situation_. They somehow knew John was alive — why else would they help her? They wouldn't aid her escape, if not for Winston's _involvement_. Logan was afraid to broach the subject; to do so would divert attention to more personal matters, matters which Logan did not wish to discuss. Period.

Now on Continental grounds, the trio visibly relaxed; cushioned footfalls silenced by the unblemished carpeting, the battered, motley trio were comically out of place as they walked through the posh foyer. Abram, with the exception of a few errant strands of hair, was still well put together; Logan understood and appreciated how the solidly built man appealed to Addy. The women trailed behind the Russian, supporting each other as they slowly shuffled and limped into the hotel. Like a spotlight, their condition was highlighted by the white edges and gold trim of the the crystal chandelier overhead — Addy suffered small cuts from the broken glass that exploded into the cab with minor bruising along her leg where the car impacted them. No matter how much pressure she applied, Logan's split eyebrow still bleed. Alongside her throbbing head, she sported an impressive array of cuts and bruises herself. From behind the front desk counter, Charon silently watched their approach.

"Miss Addy, Mr. Tarasov. Welcome back."

The Concierge acknowledged Logan's companions with a minute tilt of his head. His dark eyes swept over Addy's disheveled appearance without comment, before coming to rest on Logan. The impassive expression on his face gave no indication of his thoughts or his alliance. Though Logan felt it certain it lied well within the King Pin's favor.

"It is good to see you, Miss Ryder. The Manager is expecting you; please, come with me." Charon said, before leading them to the cleverly disguised elevator.

The swift, silent ride to the top floor penthouse ended, when the cab chimed their arrival, and the doors silently parted.

Like the hotel and it's amenities, the immaculate penthouse was luxuriously and tastefully appointed, and would serve as Logan temporary, gilded refuge. Spacious and expensively furnished, the reinforced, floor to ceiling window comprised the length of an entire wall, and overlooked the city's skyline. Though a far cry from the cozy, rustic and familiar measures of Logan's home, Winston's penthouse would not be a difficult environment for her to adjust to.

At Winston's direction, the women split off to the nearest bathroom to tend their wounds, leaving the men in deep discussion within the foyer.

* * *

Perched on the marble counter top, wads of blood-stained gauze and cotton filled the rubbish container as Addy dabbed ointment onto Logan's cuts. By mutual agreement, they refused to break the pregnant silence. Addy squeezed Logan's cleaned eyebrow wound shut and applied a thin coat of medical grade skin adhesive to seal it. Ten more minutes passed.

Unable to contain herself, it was Addy who finally spoke.

"We know John's alive," she returned the tube of adhesive to the first aid kit and snapped it closed. "Winston told us."

The younger woman was not surprised, and it expressed clearly upon her face.

 _Winston. Of course; but— how …?_

Logan kept her eyes downcast. If Addy saw, she'd _know_. She'd see how much John meant to Logan, how much she _needed_ him to remain alive, even at the great, personal cost of their separation. She'd become just as desperate for his survival as her father's. Whatever it took, Logan would make sure John walked out alive.

"Hey," Addy said softly; the soothing compassion in her voice gained Logan's attention. "What's the matter?"

 _Too late,_ Logan grimaced. Hoping to prolong the inevitable, she focused on the floral tattoo etched on Addy's swan like neck. It was surrounded by tiny black stars, small and lovely. Logan didn't have any tattoos.

Meeting the ember haired woman's concerned gaze, Addy's blue eyes gently probed and somehow drew Logan's secrets out like a magnet, as a flower seeks the warmth of the sun.

Logan knew her flinty stare was hard and unforgiving; she was raised differently, harshly. Trust was a knife you plunged into your own flesh and twisted, yet curiously, Logan liked Addy, almost immediately. It was that unexplainable affinity for the red haired tapster, that the younger woman extended a small measure of trust, that enabled her to reach this point, and with so many unfamiliar and lethal people. This was what her father prepared her for — for when the world came for her. No amount of preparation could have spared Logan the pure, undiluted chaos constricting the world around her, but she managed thus far. Life was a path fraught with choices; perhaps death was a choice, as well. Logan reminded herself … she _chose_ to come here and as a result, should she perish, that would also be her decision.

Addy read the trepidation in Logan's troubled eyes, as she quietly waited for her response.

"I'm frightened," Logan muttered softly.

 _Logan truly had no idea what was coming_

"Abram and Winston are v _ery_ capable people." Addy assured her. "You can trust them."

That awful word again: trust. Logan'd rather chew on and swallow broken glass, if it meant sparing herself such a maudlin notion.

Addy gently squeezed Logan's shoulders, "Talk to me." she coaxed her softly.

Logan balked; she gritted her teeth together, feeling her molars grind against each other, lest the secrets she kept slip past her lips of their own, inconsiderate volition. In truth, she should… Perhaps it could relieve some of the pain or maybe Addy could shed some light on matters foreign to Logan.

"John came to me during a storm…," Logan began softly; her story quietly unfolded. Addy remained silent, her brow terse and her expression deeply concerned. After she caught Addy up to speed, she added "My father has so many secrets … just as many as John. And I want to help, but how can I?" She implored Addy with her slate colored eyes, seeking more answers than Addy could provide. "How can I find a way if I'm fumbling around in the dark?"

Logan desperately sought control and understanding of a parallel, shadow world and subculture that operated above and beyond conventional _rules,_ her skills set to navigate - and her ability to survive. With every second that passed, _events_ became even more unpredictable. Logan's capacity to grasp the magnitude of - much less _manage -_ wildly spiraling, fluid, dire and deadly _situations_ , slipped further away; it was a constant, mocking reminder of just how ineffective she is, and how _unwise_ she is. Logan has no hope or means to win the Assassins' game. It was a losing battle. Neither her father, John, or their adversaries were willing to share any information.

"I don't think he's been entirely honest with me; because of that, I … have made matters worse." Her weary eyes stared unseeingly at the wads of cotton, "I've made a mess of it all. What if someone dies because of what I did?"

Addy cleared her throat; whether she was unsettled by her story or something else, Logan wasn't certain. "Winston understands why you did it. He's been … _negotiating_ with the Camorra ever since Johnfked. He thought his efforts were for naught, until you arrived."

"Did he tell you to drug me?" Logan asked but Addy kept her eyes trained downward.

"He did," Addy admitted with a hint of shame, now staring at the small cuts along her hands. "But I drugged Abram, too."

Logan nodded. So Abram was spared, too. That made Logan feel _somewhat_ better. Her entire body ached and the heavy stench of blood and gunpowder lingered in her nostrils, making her empty stomach churn. When was the last time she ate? She couldn't remember.

"So what now?" Logan asked. "Are Abram and I part of a strategy?"

Addy sighed, as if the story was too long and convoluted to share. "Abram is my concern," she paused, finding the right words. "All I know is that Winston needs you alive."

Addy's choice of words disturbed Logan more than they assured her... As if Logan was merely bait and nothing else. But who was she baiting?nAs the thought took root and grew, her brow furrowed, and her heart stuttered apprehensively. "I don't understand. Am I somehow supposed to be here? Were ya'll expecting me to come?"

Addy shook her head uncertainly. "I-I don't know the details-"

The quick knock on the door interrupted them. Addy opened it to reveal Abram. Beyond the older man, Logan saw Winston speaking to his concierge; Charon was seated upon a vintage couch, with a white handkerchief pressed to his face.

"We have to go," Abram muttered. "The Camorra's here. They're on the ground floor."

"Already?" Addy asked, fear and dismay clearly written upon her patrician features.

He nodded and looked at Logan. "This is a safe house for criminals; ever since John shot Santino, lines have been…" he thought of a correct word. " _Blurring_. The Camorra intend to tie up loose ends."

Addy glanced at Logan.

"Me?" Logan blinked. What did _she_ do? If they were mad John killed someone and she theoretically killed John, how did this fall back onto her? "And who's the Camorra? Why are they after me?"

"It's about the bounty," Abram's Russian accent infused his words with an exotic and unique quality that did not diminish the gravity of the situation. "They're making a statement. Everyone dies, they keep the money. Retribution exacted."

"Well that doesn't seem fair," Addy grumbled.

Winston appeared at the doorway with a cell phone pressed to his ear. "It's time for us to go. The helicopter will arrive soon." He turned and walked away.

Abram glanced at Logan. Injuries forgotten, she hopped off the counter and followed with the redhead close behind her.

Logan reached the foyer where Charon was seated; the bloodstained handkerchief pressed to his mouth emphasized how his usual impeccably groomed and polished appearance was tousled. He did not return Logan's slight nod, nor did he utter a word as he fixed his enigmatic gaze on her. Had the aforementioned mob on the ground floor gotten to him? It was a question reserved for another time.

On the rooftop, Logan peered intently through the shadows; the unmistakable large, white, encircled " _H"_ painted across the cement glowed blue in the darkness. Her ears strained as she listened for the familiar whirring.

The helicopter arrived; Logan knew their flight aboard the black _McDonnell Douglas MD_ series would be luxurious, unlike the war birds she flew.

The aircraft hovered over the landing pad, and then smoothly touched down. The spinning blades, and the main rotors' downwash blew enough thrust across the rooftop, that its passengers leaned forward as they made their way to the whirlybird. Quickly, they boarded; their pilot smoothly picked up and headed north.

Without her night vision goggles and heads-up displays, all Logan saw was a pitch black sea sprinkled with colorful lights. Golden orbs floated over major highways, and slow pulses of red indicated the highest obstacle points before them. The city was filled with them. Below, Logan watched the sprawling congestion where people lived shoulder to shoulder, with hardly any space or privacy in between. Ever since she'd arrived, Logan experienced non stop uncertainty, chaos and disorder. Living alone on her property, breathing fresh, clean air … quiet nights without the din of traffic, people shouting or wailing sirens was a blessing. She was out of her element; more importantly, Logan had _no_ control over her current elements.

Inside the cockpit, the familiar instruments glowed dull shades of red, green, and orange against the cyclic moving slowly between her knees. She wondered about the conditions of her employment. Her three days of leave were long over. People would be looking for her; they would call her phone, which, Logan concluded - was still at the Continental. Her recently acquired friends would surely request law enforcement officials to conduct welfare checks to her home; it couldn't be helped … _for now._ Below, the city lights thinned, and more geometrical pattern of lights lined the streets and parking lots.

The red lights fell behind them when buildings' peaks didn't reach as high. Blinded by the darkness, Logan couldn't discern the topography beneath. She glanced at the pilot and asked over the radio.

"What's below?"

"Warehouses," he told her. "We're heading towards the industrial parks."

Her stomach clenched. Nothing good was associated with warehouses, especially those related to sordid empires. Had Logan meekly led herself to her own demise? Where they going to kill her, dismember her like they'd don to her mother - were _they_ the ones who killed Jennifer? Logan's imagination ran wild, downward spirals of _what if's._ She was painfully aware she was unarmed. Logan didn't even have a pocket knife to swipe at someone with, and her martial arts skills were futile against bullets.

The pilot began their downwind approach. Logan was looking out below, when the aircraft violently lurched towards the left.

Reflexively, Logan's hands flew out; she caught the controls on her side, acutely aware of their position. Legs extended, her feet found and adjusted the pedals at her feet. Logan shot the pilot a glare.

 _Was he toying with them?_

His head lolled back against his shoulders; the blood, small chunks of skull and brain matter adhered against the window indicated he'd been shot in the head. The dull roar of flight, and the oscillation of the aircraft combined, provided the perfect cover for _someone_ to fire at the helicopter undetected. It could have been her. It _should_ have been her.

 _How?!_ Her mind drew blank for the smallest moment, unable to comprehend the speed at which their current status somehow turned for the worse. In less than a blink of an eye.

Logan searched the forward windshield for the bullet's entry point. It came from the right, so she dropped the collective.

The helicopter did a nose dive, throwing its unsuspecting passengers upward. The dead pilot lurched forward as well; thankfully, the restraining harness prevented his corpse from interfering with the flight controls. Panicked, Logan was unsure of the shooter's position in relation to their own. They'd crossed hundreds of feet before Logan realized they were under attack. They could have flown past the shooter - or they could very well be right on top of the Assassin and the roof where he … or _she_ most likely perched. Logan needed to fly lower, and in between the buildings.

Without her typical night flight equipment, she couldn't determine where the ground was. Pilotage was out of the question. Logan turned her attention to the cockpit, and watched as the instruments guided her through the darkness. The artificial horizon indicated the nose was down, the vertical speed indicator showed their hundred feet per minute descent. What was the elevation in the area? Where were the winds coming from? Glancing outside, the orange row of street lights hemming the sides of the surface streets guided her away from unseen obstacles. Keeping above them prevented any midair collisions.

The bench-like seat separating the front and rear seats left enough space to peer over; the sudden input caused Abram to peek over it. He saw the slumped pilot and looked at Logan - at the same time the second bullet whizzed past and grazed the glass nearest the main rotor mount.

The glass cracked and splintered. Reflexively, they both flinched.

Logan's adrenaline spiked as she anticipated the warning tones and alarms, her body braced and rigid, in case she needed to perform an emergency landing - but no caution or warning alarms blared. She needed to know where to land. He ducked back down to warn the others. _She needed to know where to land!_

"Abram, wait!" Logan cried over the helmet's microphone; her cry was drowned out by the engines.

"What in God's name is going on?" Winston's voice came over the radio.

Unable to answer right away, Logan focused on the instruments while trying not to get shot at again. The Manager presumed all their jostling was caused by mere turbulence.

"Hello?" Winston said, splitting her nerves even further. "Hello?!" he repeated.

Another shot slammed into the right door beside Logan, narrowly missing her arm working the cyclic. The round embedded itself into the dead pilot's armpit. She flinched, and her pulse pounded in her ears. Meanwhile, Winston still made a fervent effort to communicate.

" _Stop talking!"_ She shouted, and stomped the left pedal. The helicopter swung around accordingly, throwing the tail rotor towards her right.

Communications went silent while Logan searched below for an opening wide enough for an emergency landing, considering their speed and altitude - and the fact that she was tired of being shot at.

They were travelling at ninety knots and gaining after Logan dropped the collective. She needed to get as low and fast as she could, and place a few buildings between her and the shooter. Inwardly, she cursed her inability to know her airspace, the elevation and winds; reckless inputs could result in them ending as char mark against the pavement.

Another projectile punched through the left cockpit door. This time, the round slammed into the cyclic just below her hand, and ripped it from her grasp. It felt like someone hit her hand with a baseball bat. The helicopter jostled and gyrated hazardously.

The shooter was on her left now, and they were still visible. Her hand sang painfully from the jarring impact, but she was otherwise unharmed. Logan snatched the control stick back, and dumped the collective; the helicopter pitched downward, lifting everyone from their seats. Pinning their location was impossible. Not in the darkness, not against the city lights, and not without night aids.

The earth was black as pitch beneath her; small lights barely helped her discern what they illuminated. If she could find a street straight and long enough, she could land, but Logan must get close to the ground. She held the controls steady as the street rushed up to meet them.

Heart in throat, she strained to find a landing spot in time. There was the option to flip the bird around last minute, but there was much more to consider, than just a spot to put down. Her ears strained past the wailing of the turbines overhead for any telltale sounds of gunfire, though she knew she wouldn't hear it.

Finally, a narrow, but well-lit street presented itself. At their current altitude, she couldn't tell if street lights were too close together. Only until the last minute could she discern adequate clearance. If so, landing was possible, but it wouldn't be soft - and the blades would be destroyed.

"Tighten your harsness!" She shouted over the comms. "Place your head between your knees and make yourself as small as you can."

At a hundred feet above the ground, she flared; pulling back on the cyclic slowed their descent. They continued downward; at fifty feet, she flared again, stopping their descent entirely. Logan pulled up on the collective gently, levelled and straightened the ship with the pedals, and brought the helicopter into a stable hover. Beneath most of the warehouse rooftops, they were hopefully beyond shooting range.

Logan breathed a sigh of relief and tasted the coppery tang that filled the cockpit. Her nerves were still frayed.

A number of things could have gone terribly wrong. What if she flew straight into power lines? Catching a skid would have flipped the helicopter, and killed everyone inside. Their descension rate into confined spaces between the buildings, and the loss of clean air would make them lose lift, and slam the helicopter into the pavement like an anvil falling from the sky. Or … the sniper's aim could have finally proven true, and she, too, could have been shot and killed. Winston, Abram, Addy would die from crash, because of her.

 _It doesn't matter now_ , she thought. They were safe now, and hopefully no longer in the shooter's cross hairs.

 _She_ was alive.

The empty street proved wide enough for the _MD_ , but the distance between the blade tips, and foreign objects was four feet, at the most.

Logan brought the helicopter down to a five foot hover, and steadily pushed the cyclic. The aircraft tipped nose forward, and they glided down the street. Carefully, she fumbled the cyclic until she found the appropriate switch and flipped it. The taxi light came on, shining on the cracked asphalt before her.

 _Now where?_

"Winston, tell me where to go." Her voice was tight over the radio; Rigid body drenched in stress-sweat, mirrored her terse inflection.

 _Powerlines._ She couldn't let that go. In daylight, they were difficult to see - until it was too late; at night, they were invisible.

The Manager intently studied the surrounding buildings and landmarks, trying to discern his location.

"Go all the way down," he instructed.

She did, but the streets were rapidly narrowing. Logan felt like she was squeezing the whirlybird through a small hole. At any moment, sparks would fly.

"Can you turn there - on the right?"

She brought the cyclic back towards her, slowing them down; Logan pressed right pedal, and the bird turned its nose right and drifted leftward. Her left hand was a fist tightly around the collective. Logan felt every single vibration through her aching fingers and wrist. Someone was going to have to pry her off the controls.

"There," Winston's voice filled her ears. "By those loading docks. Put us down there."

* * *

 **Happy New Years everyone!**

 **Thank you for the reviews YYFlower, Itisher, LilyLittle, AwesomeFanGirlOtaku01.**

 **I hope yall had a great several holidays. I took some time for myself and my family. Had a birthday! I'm 27 ooof, lemme get my cane. Then of course, an influx of holidays and time off and adventures. Well, anywho, FFA is still trucking. We've only have two more chapters (maybe) after this until I break them apart to make them shorter. I didn't anticipate this to be 3500 words but welp! More than likely, one or two chapters left, and an epilogue. Until then, thanks for reading!**


	35. Chapter 35

After the blades slowed down, they quickly exited the aircraft. Overhead, the streetlamps flickered and dimmed with swarms of insects batting at the light's surface. Sans the background din of city nearby, the parks were quiet. Logan stepped out of the helicopter and eyed the large warehouse before her, a black mass in the nightfall. Though lined with many nondescript warehouses, it was _this_ particular one they needed to be at, which only meant they were not here by chance. A plan was afoot.

Winston led them inside.

They entered what Logan surmised as a foyer of what was once the administrative portion of the building, indicated by the scatters of papers and computer parts left upon dusty desks, toppled chairs, and the like. Directly to her left was an office; long abandoned, the cement bricked wall between them and the warehouse floor featured a singular, large, thickly clouded window. Orange light from outside spilled through the cracked windows onto the door, half-way unhinged like a broken jaw.

Logan counted two exits: where they entered, and another to the far left that led to the main area through a garage door to a loading dock.

"Is that blood?" Logan gestured towards the dark stains at her feet, indiscernible in the shadows.

For a moment, no one answered until Winston muttered, "It could be anything."

He clicked on a flashlight, washing the dusty compartment in a harsh light Logan winced from.

 _Now_ she could see the innards of the warehouse. A _warehouse_ , of all places. _Why_ did things always end in a warehouse? The area was too cavernous, with hardly any cover, and noises bounced off the walls. She glanced up at the high ceilings and skylights; the dusty floor was littered with tattered, plastic sheeting that hung from rotting scaffolds, the odor of damp mildew permeated _everything_. The windows that weren't broken, were thickly filmed with dirt, making it difficult to see through. It was an ideal location to conduct _business._ Logan worried the inside of her cheek, growing more uneasy.

Abram fumbled with his cufflinks, staring across the empty space.

"I know this place." he muttered darkly.

Logan glanced at him curiously, wondering at the indignant chagrin in the Russian's voice. His eyes were fixed upon a toppled chair at the far end of the room. Segments of rope rested along the floor like a snakes.

Abram turned his sardonic glare at Addy, who pinned him with her own steely gaze.

"You should be _thanking_ me," she snapped. "It wasn't easy dragging you out of here and throwing you into my car."

 _This is where they took Abram?_ There was no question to it. Abram, like Logan, had fallen into the proverbial chess game. It appeared he had the upper hand, whereas, Logan wasn't entirely sure where she stood on the hierarchy. Perhaps the very, very, very _pit_ of it all. Logan risked a glanced towards the king pin.

In the gloom, Winston's smile was barely discernible.

The men led them towards the far left entrance, and deeper into the shadows of the warehouse.

Logan was still attempting to see in the darkness around her. Was this the end for her? She didn't want to die in a warehouse. She was supposed to die in a helicopter crash, or in a combat zone, shot down by an rocket propelled grenade. Or pulled from a wreckage, held as a prisoner of war, and tortured for weeks until her soul broke and her heart stopped beating.

Not on her home soil, but her own people.

"You alright?" asked Addy, placing a gentle hand on Logan's shoulder.

She considered shrugging her hand way and fleeing. The dark thoughts would not abate until she left this place. To keep the attention off of her, and also end the subject matter, she nodded.

Addy tilted her head; her pale face glowed an ethereal blue in the shadows, her enlarged pupils made her eyes appear almost black. Logan couldn't decide if it was Addy's concerned expression, or the vast space that was filled with shadows and neglect - but suddenly, Logan felt alone and vulnerable. She wanted her father.

 _Was_ this the end? Was this where the Camorra would come for her? It also didn't help she wasn't in favorable regards towards Winston.

"What are we doing here, Addy?" she quietly asked, better than to ask Winston or Abram.

Addy's voice barely above a whisper."Abram said they're trying to close the contract with the Camorra. John's 'dead', hand over the bounty and restore order within the underground."

Logan's brow furrowed.

"'Restore order?'" the younger woman echoed; she did not understand the magnitude of the bar-keep's explanation. Perhaps a hierarchy did exist. Where exactly did that put the Camorra?

"John broke a sacred rule that _every_ professional, regardless of the echelon, is expected to follow. _Years_ have passed without incident - until John walks in and puts a bullet through Santino's head." Addy mimicked a soft _pow_ with a finger gun pointed at her temple.

 _Now_ Logan understood what Abram meant, when he said ' _lines were blurring.'_

"Without a body, the contract remains open. Your allegations caused an uproar. A lot of people believe you killed him. A lot of other people are mad John killed Santino _on_ Continental ground."

 _There went that damn rhetoric again,_ Logan curled her lip.

The imagine of John slumped on her couch, drenched with rain and blood, came to the forefront of her mind; he nearly died that night, and part of Logan hoped he would, for purely selfish reasons. Now ... hopes weren't the same. Logan shot a woman at point blank range, and all but sawed another man's head off with a Kbar. All for John's protection. She was getting used to the smell of blood and the constant ringing in her ears.

Logan's eyes finally adjusted to the darkness - literally and figuratively.

"What if they don't agree with the deal?" she asked, wary of the answer.

Addy thoughtfully contemplated Logan's words.

"We haven't gotten that far yet."

* * *

"Her mother is schizophrenic," Caldron muttered while John stared ahead. "I didn't know until after Logan was born."

From the passenger side of Caldron's truck, John stared ahead. The statement was random and unwarranted. Neither had spoken for the majority of the trip, and he certainly hadn't asked about Caldron's late wife, Jennifer - another terrible, shared commonality, even if Caldron wasn't yet aware. John knew it wasn't his right to deliver the news, that was up to Logan, if she ever had the opportunity. Still, at one point in their lives-before the underground, before everything- they were brother's in arms.

"Jenn could play all these instruments, an' she was so beautiful," Caldron continued, growing forlorn by the second. "She tried teachin' Logan, but Logan wanted to go outside and play like any kid. Jennifer was very controlling. She couldn't understand why Logan didn't want t'sit and learn t'play music." He grew quiet, a muscle twitched along his jaw.

"The little things set her off. Jen became abusive." He glanced at John, "Work, as you know, kept me away for months on end, leaving Logan under Jen's supervision." John remained quiet, listening.

They drove on as dusk burned the horizon. Nightfall was closing in; their road trip hardly qualified as a covert mission, if you asked John. The men were armed to the teeth, rallied, and en route. Several miles passed before Caldron spoke again. His voice was soft and tremulous.

"I fucked up."

He squeezed the steering wheel until the leather groaned. John glanced at the side mirrors of Caldron's white dually; a convoy of cars followed directly behind them. They were close; the city's glow peeked over the dark horizon. "I left my baby girl in the hands of a cold hearted bitch."

Caldron took a deep breath and exhaled shakily.

"She's got issues, trauma. Something twisted inside her. I can never guess what she's gonna do, or how's she'll react."

John said nothing he looked down at the rifle barrel pointed between his knees. The buttstock rested against his shoulder. A hand laid along the handrail, and the other readjusted his pistol grip. They were both dressed for the occasion; Caldron, John, and the others. All in black.

"Most psychosis make their appearances late-teens or early-twenties." Caldron continued, "She'll be twenty-six soon. I'm hopin' we're in the clear, but I'm still worried," his voice trailed off. A pregnant silence encompassed them. The white dashes along the road flew past in a blur.

"She associates pain with affection." Caldron cleared his throat when the unsettling words threatened to choke him. "Because of what her mom did to her."

"She don't know any better."

* * *

What John did, what he was doing - it was no different than the merciless and unforgiving circumstances that brought Santino to his door step. John could not control all outcomes. He was just a pawn to be played, over and over. Every move upon the proverbial chess board led all of them to this very moment; John did not feel like an honest man; his loyalties aligned with Winston, whom he'd been honest from the very beginning; what John was about to do was not merciful or forgiving, but it must be done.

 _Rules...The Marker._

Caldron placed the dually in park. His eyes never left the dark warehouse looming before them. Logan's cellphone ping triangulated from a cell tower near their location. They had repeatedly called Logan, but to no avail. She wasn't answering.

Or she was dead.

It'd come to no surprise when the thought spread a fire across his chest. John was no fool; Logan had become something special to him, even if she was broken. She didn't seem to him.

After scouring the streets, their searching eyes turned upward, just as a small, black helicopter dove behind the buildings. Winston preferred this area; both Caldron and John were fully aware of his territories. Winston bringing Logan _here_ churned John's stomach with acid. He had only one chess piece to move in this game; how many pieces did Winston possess, and how many moves would the king pin make, before declaring _checkmate_?

He just needed to get inside, get to her, then leave. Simple enough.

They followed the helicopter closely as it drifted between the narrow street lights, all the way to the T-section; when it banked right, they followed.

"Stay here," Caldron said; he cut the engine before the helicopter's drone died, and exposed them. "I'll call if I need you."

"Ryder," John said. Caldron paused; one hand was on the door, the other gripped his shotgun. It was the first time John spoke during their drive. There wasn't much to say, but he must ... even if he promised Logan. Though he keenly detested the fact he agreed, he'd made it. However, it was also an unfathomable disservice and John did not want one more stain on his conscious.

"He killed Jennifer."

* * *

In its heyday, the warehouse was a prospering, industrial factory with global accounts; it was now a gutted husk for pigeons and rats ... and the location of choice for the shadow world to conduct its unsavory _business_. Addy led Logan up the staircase, towards the top floor's office that overlooked what was once a thriving production.

"Wait here while they work things out with the Camorra." the redhead instructed; Addy unfolded a metal chair and wiped the surface free of dust, droppings and feathers. Setting the chair down, the bartender sternly repeated for Logan to remain hidden, before she left. Logan watched Addy leave without protest, feeling her grasp on the task at hand slip through her fingers; ever since John arrived with the storm, Logan's grasp on _matters_ slipped through her fingers like sand.

Logan stared at the chair, her mind full of unanswered questions. There wasn't any way she could sit idly. Lives were at stake; being left out of the need-to-know was more damaging than preserving. She hated being uninformed regarding crucial events unfolding around her - hated her lack of control.

Unable to sit still, Logan cautiously approached the upper-level office's dingy window. It overlooked the warehouse floor; narrow catwalks lined all four sides, and bridged the spaces across. She peered down; from her higher advantage, Logan saw _more_ stains across the smooth concrete . . . dark swaths and smears of it - dried puddles of what could be oil, or _blood._

Like chipped teeth, large, paneled windows were cracked and broken. Several sections were missing entire panes. Winston and Abram appeared, and walked toward the center of the room; Addy was nowhere in sight.

Other figures Logan did not recognize were gathering around the kingpin. One man stood out from the others, wearing a pale suit. The others flanked him in black. Logan counted at least eight men, but it was dark. She could be wrong. There could be more, or less

Suddenly, orange light spilled in suddenly from a garage door on the far side, capturing Logan's attention. The light cast multiple, long black shadows across the floor before the garage door closed, and dim shadows claimed the warehouse once again. Logan kept her eye trained on their location as she adjusted to the lighting.

The two groups conferred for several minutes. Logan quietly waited, her agitated mind conjured possible veins of the conversation below. _Were they reaching an agreement? A disagreement? What did that mean for John? For Logan? What if the Camorra wanted to take her away?_

The garage door opened again, and light from the orange streetlamps flooded the space once more. Winston and the others turned to see who dared to interrupt their _negotiations_ , when several black clad figures entered. Logan pressed her forehead against the dirty glass, attempting to see who the new arrivals were, and what their purpose was, when the room erupted in machine gun fire.

* * *

The first two groups scattered in all directions; even Logan ducked and hunkered down, before realizing she was safely perched high above the calamity _._ Cautiously she poked her head up, desperate to see what was happening below. Abram rushed up and pulled Winston out of the crossfire while several men from the first group immediately fell to the ground when spray of bullets ripped through them.

Addy was down there with Winston - everyone on a very short list - who wanted to help John. She, however, was sequestered to stay out of the way.

Unable to merely observe the chaos below, Logan rushed to the office door But when she gripped the knob and yanked, the latch didn't give. No matter how fiercely she twisted the knob. She yanked, yet the door remained firmly in place; _Addy had locked her in_.

Logan stepped back and charged, shouldering the door with brute force. It remained unmoving. Again and again, she tried, until a shooting pain spread across her upper back and her skin flushed hotly from the impact. She wasn't getting out.

Volleys of gunfire continued to rip through the air; the smell of gunpowder was thick as flashes from muzzles lighting up the warehouse like fireworks. Every movement below was akin to a stop-motion feature. Between the bursts of fire, there were shouts and cries.

Turning away from the door, Logan raced towards the window again. Her breath created a hot cloud against the cool glass. She followed the line of fire through the illuminating tracers bursting across the space; following anyone moving below was a challenge, because of the flashing lights.

So this was how the Camorra got what they wanted. They wanted _everyone_ eliminated; once they claimed the lives, they'd turn their attention upstairs where Logan was, cornered and unarmed.

Convinced her efforts were useless, she stepped back from the glass as her mind raced for a way out. She tried the door again before returning to the window. With her hands, she prodded the edges of the sill for structural weaknesses. She pressed her palms against the filmy surface and pushed. It shifted beneath her hands. Down below, the sound of gunfire suddenly stopped.

Shouting rose from the stairwell … and it was too close for her comfort.

Logan checked the window again, attempting to understand what erupted below. She couldn't find Winston, or Abram. Not even Addy. Her fearful heart knocked against her ribs.

Something smacked against the door, startling her. Eyeing it with a wide stare, the pounding grew louder and more determined. The newcomer tried the knob, twisting and pulling at it. Frustrated, they began to scream and pound against the surface.

Logan had no weapons, and nothing to arm herself with. Frantically, her eyes darted around the room before she grabbed the folded chair and eyed the window a second time.

 _The catwalks._

More gunfire erupted below, followed by shotgun blasts, and short controlled bursts of pistol fire. More shouting, loud agonizing screams; a medley of chaos that sent all thoughts scattering. All mixed with the rapid fire pumped out by the belt-fed machine gun. She wanted to throw her hands over her ears to shut out the sound - or long enough to gather her gibbered thoughts. Amidst the sheer calamity, she could only think of one thing: _escape._

The rapid fire reports echoed off the warehouse walls, along with the men's cries and shouts. If Logan strained hard enough, she could hear the hot brass bouncing off the concrete. People were fleeing up the stairs, away from the slaughter. The only place available to them was the locked, upper floor office, that housed Logan - and she _wasn't_ opening it.

Gripping the legs of the metal chair, she took a deep breath and swung.

The chair collided with the window with a satisfying crunch. Glass splintered at the pane's corner. She swung again. More cracks appeared, and traversed upward. Chunks dislodged themselves.

She swung a third time.

Then the door burst open.

* * *

An unfamiliar man stumbled in, wrenched around and slammed the door closed behind him. He pressed his back to the surface; breathing heavily, he looked up when a shard of glass fell to the floor, and realized he wasn't alone.

For a moment, they stared at each other.

A heartbeat.

Then they both sprang into action.

Abandoning the window, Logan swung the chair up. She caught him across the face with the back rest, throwing his head back from the blow and bringing his entire body into a pratfall. He hit the concrete, stunned and bleeding from the face. She didn't wait, advancing him and bringing the chair down a second time, and a third. With each strike, she lost count. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Bone shattered and blood splashed and spattered. Anger seized her in a bloodied frenzy, painting the dusty concrete in red liquid, chunks of skulls and tufts of hair. His face was gone, a mask of crimson features caved in, broken teeth and split flesh.

Dead, or at least, rapidly dying.

Chest heaving from exertion and white anger, she stepped back, dropping the chair and staring at her trembling hands that, just moments ago, clutched the chair so firmly they ached. Self-dense, she told herself. It was out of self-defense.

Logan turned back towards the window, picked up the chair again and swung it against the glass in rapid successions. It refused to shatter, but it was certainly unseated.

More footsteps.

Coming up the stairs quickly.

 _The rest of the Camorra…_

Tears burned the corner of her eyes as the panic rose and spread across her heaving chest. Dropping the chair, she went after it with her hands, pushing and pulling, causing tiny shards to bite into her palms.

The footsteps were closer now. Her heart knocked, ribs ached. More screams followed. Now that the gunfire had ceased, the litany of the dying filled the stairwell.

Logan wrapped her fingers around an available edge and yanked, freeing a large portion of window, gouging her hand. A section came free, large enough to compromise the window's integrity. Logan brought a leg up and kicked, a chunked fell away. The gaping hole was wide enough now to slip through.

Logan bent, slipping an arm then shoulder through until an unknown forced snatch a handful of her hair and yanked back.

* * *

She fell away from her escape route; her shoulder caught on the sharp edge of the glass and bit into her. Both hands were coated in blood, and now a sticky warmth bloomed down her back and collar as she collided with the desk directly behind her.

Surviving was her only concern.

Picking herself up immediately, Logan scrambled to get away, to find the chair again. The assailant moved with surprising speed, and was upon her, threwing her to the floor. She hit the concrete with an _oof,_ then wrenched onto her back. He straddled her hips, and sat heavily atop her. His meaty hands shot out, catching her by the neck and squeezing. Logan's hands flew up towards her assailant's face, but her reach wasn't long enough, and she swiped futilely at his locked elbow. The blood trapped in her head forced her eyes and lips to bulge as the pressure built. His heavy figure filled her vision as he loomed over her, pressing down with all of his weight and might. She bucked her hips, trying to dismount him. Thought-scattering, mind-numbing panic took over. Logan choked and kicked; thrashing her legs, blood slinging about, covering the floor and the walls. A dark cloud hemmed her vision while her lungs burned for air.

All the while, the screams never stopped. The continuous wailing resonated off walls. A hellish chorus of sounds drowned out her own dire cries.

The footsteps still came. More were coming for their pound of flesh. Once she was dead, it did not mean the end.

Logan only had a few more seconds, before unconsciousness and certain death..

The door flew open again, hitting the wall with a startling clap and rattling its hinges.

Her blood-slicked hands were wrapped around the attacker's wrist, straining to break his grip.

The weight vanished, and pressure in her head mercifully receded; Logan's starved lungs swelled greedily, pain stabbed her ribs. Grunts and meaty thumps filled the office. She coughed and rolled onto her hands and knees, crawling away.

She could return to the window, cut her hands even more by trying to escape, only to bleed out before she reached the helicopter. She _could_ try running past them, but there were more Assassins in the stairwells. Unarmed, she wouldn't make it far - if at all.

Logan peered over the desk to see what if an escape route was viable.

But there was John, shoving her assailant against the wall.

* * *

Finally right? damn.


	36. Chapter 36

The slicing hiss of a freed blade turned Logan's attention to John just as he plunged the knife into the man's cheek. Her assailant gasped, gagging on the blood accompanied by the cringing report of blade scraping teeth. John shoved forward, pushing the man back until they met the wall.

Ripping the blade free, he sank it immediately into the man's throat. He yanked it back, flinging more blood across the window, maiming the man's neck with several more strikes. The recipient pawed futilely with one hand and gripped at John's sleeve with the other. With each application, the fell man's expression tore and flayed open. His eyes rolled back into their sockets; blood welled from his lips and neck, painting his chest a beautiful, deep crimson.

With the last, gargling gasp, the life fled him.

John stepped back, allowing the dead man to slide down in a heap of bloody, dusty limbs.

Garbed entirely in black, he scanned the room until he found her on the other side of the desk.

She was frozen in place. Though every part of her wanted nothing more than to pick herself up and go to him, Logan was rooted. She'd never expected to see him again. His unkempt hair hung in disarray about his face, blood spattered his cheeks and forehead. _He_ was the thing coming up the stairs, eliciting screams of agony, a macabre artist painting the walls in bloodshed. The director, orchestrating absolute terror.

The men were trying to escape _him_ by fleeing up here, where she awaited.

 **John Wick;** both the shelter and the storm. The Devil Himself was here for her.

Logan's body trembled, screaming to move, to lessen the distance, but she couldn't. She could only stare, wide-eyed and awestruck. She _loved_ him. She loved him with enough fervor, that she couldn't move, forgot to breathe until her chest burned as she stared dumbfounded.

John stepped over the corpse, strode across the office, and crouched before her. He touched her face tenderly, his fingers lightly tracing the cut along her eyebrow. He eyed the bloodstains on her clothing. He took her hands, flipping the over to see the red gashes, the result of her fervid attempt to escape.

Relief washed over her.

Logan closed her eyes, freeing hot tears from their corners.

Gently, he took her by her wrist and they stood. Her shaking limbs steadied when he pulled her close and she fell into him.

Logan finally found function of her lungs and she breathed deeply, pressing her face into the fabric of his chest. His scent and his warmth enveloped her like his arms across her back and shoulders. Her arms wrapped around him, desperately clutching the dark fabric against his back. Logan counted his slow heartbeats within his chest as his fingers worked through her tangled hair. His other hand caressed her back, gently squeezing her whilst they embraced.

What was there to say? she wondered. An apology? Should she reveal her true feelings?

John pulled back and forced her to look at him by lifting her chin. She met his dark eyes, causing her heart to wrench fondly. A mind's account did little justice capturing his predatory stare. She'd missed it dearly.

He dipped his head as she rose to her toes, and their lips met in a gentle, reassuring kiss.

* * *

"I need to get you out of here," John told Logan as he removed the rifle slung across his back. He handed it to her and she looped the rifle strap over her shoulder. Her thoroughly gouged palms made it nearly impossible for her to hold the weapon. His singular reference also troubled her.

"Where are we going?" Logan asked as she followed.

Wordlessly, he lead her out of the office towards the stairs. The stairwell was littered with bodies and spent shell casings, the walls painted in ghastly red hand prints of victims fleeing their inevitable end.

"Anywhere. Away. Out of the city, the state."

When they reached the warehouse floor, he stopped and patted down a dead body; removing several magazines from the belt, John racked a round in his pistol and pocketed two magazines. Logan checked her own ammo capacity. She only had one 30 round magazine. Perhaps the fight was over; Logan's gaze swept across innumerable brass that glittered in the dim lighting, her attention arrested by the heaps of shadows-fallen bodies-that were strewn across the floor like sacks of grain. _Shapeless, motionless, faceless._

She did this. Her selfishness and need for control was the catalyst — setting in motion the chain of events that brought together a multitude of sordid entities, and pitted them against each other, resulting in the carnage before her. All over a lie, a glaring, blood-red lie. It was a shameful and reprehensible feat.

"Logan," John said softly, steering her away from the morbid display. "I need you outside."

She looked down at the rifle in her heads with its unmistakable markings and accented parts. The rifle was not foreign to her. No, she'd fired it a many times.

Adjusting her grip, Logan yanked the charging handle back and expended a live round; doing so opened the ejection port cover. On flip side, as she suspected, was an embellished Texas flag.

"Where is he?" she shot John a hard stare. "Where is my father?"

"Please, Logan." He avoided the question.

Side stepping, she dropped the rifle and limped towards the open warehouse area just as as the lights flipped on.

Blinded but determined to find Caldron, Logan shielded her eyes with her bloody hand; her frantic gaze lit on him. Everything went cold.

In the center of the warehouse knelt Caldron. Not only was her father captured and bound before her, with a gag stuffed into his mouth — he was flanked by Winston and Abram. Addy was huddled off to the side, attempting to appear as small and insignificant as possible.

 _You have no idea what's coming …_

Logan's eyes dilated as she recalled the Russian's cryptic words.

"What the fuck is going on?" Logan's voice trembled with fear. "What are you doing with him!?"

Winston's soft, yet menacing chuckle drifted towards her, settling upon her like a death's icy touch.

"Exactly what needs to be done, Miss Ryder." Winston drawled; he made a small gesture towards Abram. The Russian glanced at Logan; their eyes locked. With that singular look, Logan desperately sought to connect with Abram, silently pleading for his help; the Russian's eyes held no warmth, no compassion or regret as they raked over Logan's pitiful form as the man strode towards the Kingpin. The stainless steel pistol glittered in the florescent lights as he moved.

Logan's vision was blurred by welling tears as she frantically sought out Addy — surely the barmaid could help her father as she helped Abram? The redhead's sorrowful, mascara-streaked gaze gave Logan the answer she _did not_ want.

Her attention snapped back to her father at the ominous sound of a chambering a round. Abram, who'd stopped a pace before Caldron, aimed his loaded firearm towards her father's head.

Logan's hands flew up to catch the scream that threatened to rip through her. Who would come to avert her distress? **No one.** The two people who she felt safest with-one had a gun to his head and the other…

She threw a scathing glance over her shoulder towards John. "You knew this would happen?!"

John's shoulders sagged as he shook his head.

"I have a deal, Miss Ryder." Winston said, forcing her to look back towards the kingpin, riveted in place by his merciless and piercing gaze. "If you care to listen."

Logan glared, too furious to reply.

"You leave your father here, and take John with you-"

"No!"

Winston frowned lightly at Logan's outburst. Her shoulders heaved with gasping breaths. Wrought with emotion, it wreaked havoc on her senses and compromised all judgement.

"Miss Ryder, it would behoove you to allow me to finish." Nonchalantly, the Manager paced the warehouse floor as he continued. "Your father is the key to setting John free. Did you know that?" He paused with a smirk, delighted by a distant recollection. "Is that not what you want, to set John free? Is that not the very reason you came here, armed to the teeth, spreading rumors so you could keep him to yourself? Please, Miss Ryder, I know a love-struck fool when I see one."

Hot anger spread like a raging inferno through her, quaking her body and blackening the edges of her vision. It was too much to handle for Logan. Either she would pass out or watch her father die. Anything but both...

"Now before you exact judgement on my behalf, I would like to shed some light on the matter. Do get comfortable. Caldron and John have more in common than just a dead wife and a DD-214." He paused, chuckling dryly. The pieces crashed together. _Winston_ chopped up Jennifer, then left the ghastly remains for _Logan_ to find. All this time, she thought it was the syndicate after John.

"Does _'Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat'_ strike any chords?"

Logan's features twisted into an ugly mask of despair, breathing through her nose as her vision blurred, tears streaming over her cheeks. At her sides, her fist clenched tightly. Her response came weak and broken, but she managed to confirm his suspicions.

Caldron had those very words etched across his chest. A symbol of a brotherhood, but now his epitaph.

Winston nodded, pleased with her response. "Two rules, Miss Ryder: No blood on Continental ground and all Markers must be honored. If they dishonor the Marker, they die; should they kill the holder of the Marker, they die; and if they run, they die." Winston paused in his amble and speech, allowing the silence to bare down on Logan's shoulders. "Your father tried all three. First, he refused. Second, he tried to take my life, and when he failed, he fled.

Logan dragged her pleading gaze from the kingpin to her father.

"They're close enough in age, wouldn't you say? Both strong, strapping lads from common backgrounds … So common, they even have similar tattoos. Of course, in different locations. But the Camorra doesn't know that. And neither does the High Table. They just know what the tattoo says. When a body is delivered with certain ... _traits,_ and physical markings, the contract will be "closed." Isn't that right, Mr. Ryder?"

Her father closed his eyes and hung his head.

"Of course, we'll do what we can with his face, won't we, Abram?"

The Russian agreed with an infuriating sneer.

 _You have no idea what's coming …_ in her heart, Logan knew unimaginable, inevitable tragedy was coming. They planned to kill her father, mutilate him beyond recognition, then present his corpse in its horrific condition to the Camorra. Thus, sealing the contract and freeing John Wick.

"Don't." Logan begged. "Don't do this."

"Then I will take John's life…?"

"No!" Logan nearly screamed.

"Well, you can't have both, my dear. Caldron is indebted to me, much like John is — but, unlike Caldron, John pays his dues. Cowards like your father flee for twenty years, stalling the inevitable. Ah, the bittersweet irony — your father's _stolen_ time has finally come to a conclusion, drawn out from hiding by _his very own_. So..."

Winston came to stand next to Abram, whose gun barrel was still trained on her father. "If if you cannot decide, Miss Ryder, the decision will be made for you."

Logan's eyes mirrored her father's. His resigned gaze was haunted by his choices, pleading for her to _run, get out_.

Winston's frightening smile transformed his entire visage, the aura of power and authority emanating from him gave Logan a brief glimpse of the older man's sway. Once again, she was reminded just how terribly she underestimated the gentrified man before her — and how ruthlessly the Underground exacted its pound of flesh.

The scream caught in Logan's throat tore through the empty warehouse as she took off towards them.

Abram drew the hammer back; the gunshot rang out. The flashing muzzle and fateful sound forever etched in Logan's mind.

Blood and brains spewed through the air. Caldron slumped onto his side, now one among many faceless, motionless, shapeless...

Logan fell to her knees, still screaming, still hurting, dying if only one could die of heartbreak.

Life was a choice; s _he_ was supposed to die.

Then dark veil hovering at her peripheral closed in and the world went black.

* * *

oH damn guys!


	37. Chapter 37

**Six years later…**

Logan lay on her side as dawn peeked through the sheer curtains of her bedroom window. The early morning sky stretched wide and blue, and was cloudless; a soft breeze caressed the young stalks of the wheat fields surrounding her old, two story farmhouse. A sound downstairs had interrupted her sleep. A rapid stomping report. In fact, it was only a matter of time before-

Her bedroom door flew open and little feet thundered across the hardwood floor.

"Mama!" Her daughter joyfully squealed, flinging herself onto the bed and jostling Logan. "Wake up, wake up, wakeupwakeupwakeup!" Her daughter's tiny hands grasp at her arms, and then her side, seeking her flank. The small fingers dug in, counting her ribs. Logan wrenched around, smiling.

"Don't tickle me!" She quipped, grasping the child and throwing the covers over them.

Addelyn peeled into a fit of giggles, thrashing her legs and elbows as Logan's fingers found her small ribs and tickled her; Logan made sure she was gentle - always.

When Logan discovered she was pregnant, naturally she was terrified. Not because she _was_ pregnant, or because her father was gone - or because she was alone in the _matter_ but because she … feared _becoming_ something horrid like Jennifer: emotionally distant, unloving, callous and abusive. It was a pattern Logan was determined to break away from.

Her child's laughter swelled in volume as she pleaded, her voice chiming like musical bells. "Okay! _Okay!_ I'm sorry, Mama! Mama! _MAMA!_ "

Logan sat up, ceased tickling her child, and threw the bed covers back.

Even now, it seemed unimaginable. _How_ could a mother refuse to nurture her own flesh and blood? Love _seemed_ to be a natural function of motherhood - like the moon and its pull on the ocean's tide. Perhaps maternal nurturing _wasn't_ natural for some women. Logan couldn't neglect her children, even if she tried. Loving them was as automatic and instinctive to her as breathing.

"Alright, Addy." Logan groaned, planting her bare feet onto the cold floor. "I'm up." It was breakfast time, anyway.

Addy scrambled to her feet and began bouncing on the bed."There's a car here, Mama."

Logan slipped on her robe and paused, "A car?" she asked.

Addy nodded.

Logan turned away and quickly padded across the room towards her bedroom window. Outside, she saw what Addy was referring to; a car was pulling into the dirt driveway.

A gunmetal black Mustang.

"Oh," _shit._ Her mind went blank; her thoughts scattered in a panicked flurry, like butterflies on the wing. Logan hadn't even had her morning coffee and the day was already off to a frantic start.

"Addy, where's your brother?"

"He's outside playing."

Logan's heart launched into her throat; she pulled her hair up into a sloppy bun and hurried down the hall. Sensing the change of atmosphere, Addy was hot on her mother's heels, following her down the stairs and into the front foyer.

Logan reached for the door and paused, peering out. She wheeled around and eyed her little girl. "Stay here."

Addy halted and stared up with large curious brown eyes, nodding faintly.

Logan swallowed hard and turned back towards the front door.

She drew it opened and stuck her head out.

Adrian, Addy's twin brother, sat on his rump with a pile of toys surrounding him. Plastic tools, remote controlled monster trucks, and water guns. It was spring time in Kansas; even amidst the far western plains, it was too cold for water guns. Adrian was still dressed in his pajamas, his bed-mussed, black hair pointing in all directions. If they didn't live so far out in the country, she would have worried about them going outside unattended. With the flattened farms fields surrounding all sides of the property, Logan could spot her young children from miles.

"Adrian," Logan's voice was strained with worry, "Come inside."

Grey eyes met hers as he obediently dropped his toys and stood. Adrian was more quiet than his twin, Addy. He shuffled into the house without a fuss as Logan slipped out and shut the door quickly behind her.

This day would come, she told herself. She'd played it a thousand times in her head, rehearsed it, prepared herself for it. But even now, as it unfolded before her, she wasn't ready.

The billow of dust around the parked Mustang was subsiding. The driver's door opened and a dark figure emerged.

 **John.**

Steadfast at his side was his dog.

Logan's heart did an odd flutter against her ribs, threatening to break free from her rib cage and land on the large wrap around porch. Behind her back, her hands tightly gripped the door handle.

A breeze kicked up, lifting the dark hair around his face.

His gait, confident but casual, was the same. The subtle hunch of his shoulder from wear and tear was the same. It wasn't until he was closer now, squinting in the morning sun, did she finally see the crow's feet wrinkles at the corners of his brown eyes, the more concentrated strands of gray at his temples.

He stopped at the foot of the porch steps, wearing a black cotton t-shirt and khaki jeans.

"Logan," he said.

The sound of his low, smooth voice throttled her heart. She wanted to fling open the door, run inside and lock it. This life she was living was so carefully constructed. Her children loved her and she loved them. She heaped upon them the attention, encouragement and adoration she was never given at their age. Whatever it took, if it meant to carve out her own heart and give it to them, so be it. She would enjoy every moment but so long as they knew she cared for them. She had control over her life, now that John had returned, she feared the old one was coming back for its own pound of flesh.

"Hey," she barely replied.

His eyes lowered to the tell-tale toys at her feet. His adam's apple bobbed.

"How'd you find me?" Logan asked, redirecting his attention.

He looked back up at her thoughtfully. "I made a few calls."

Logan nodded, accepting.

A pause stretched between the two. The trees rustled as another breeze came. Overhead, the wind vane rattled and whirled around, pointing towards the east.

"May I come inside?" he asked.

Logan stiffened. The grip she had on the door knob tightened, pushing the blood from her knuckles.

"Okay," she said weakly, "Yeah, that's fine."

 _This was it._

Both Adrian and Addy were on the other side of the screen door watching quietly. Logan's frame blocked their views of the other - until she turned. When she drew the screen door back, the twins were revealed.

John stopped short at the top of the stairs. The dog hurried past, tailing swaying as it neared the children.

When she glanced back, the blood had drained from his face.

"It's okay," she assured him, stepping aside so he could see them better. "They know who you are."

She led him inside as the children maneuvered around the adults. Addy and Adrian stared wide-eyed and wonderingly up at John. Logan unobtrusively removed herself to the dining room entryway and quietly observed the three persons in the world who meant the world to her. Even if one had waited until now to return and pick up the pieces of her shattered life.

It was Addy who broke the silence first.

"ARE YOU MY DAD?" she squealed; the sweet, earnest enthusiasm in her voice was an octave below heaven itself. Closer to the floor was John's dog pressed into her legs, surrendering to all the pets.

Adrian reached up and took John's index finger into his small grasp. John couldn't decide who to address first.

To make it easier for him, Logan asked, "Have you eaten?"

John looked over at her. "No, I haven't."

He looked relieved and surprised. Logan was surprised herself. Six years had flown by. Six years of rebuilding and mending on her own. Six years to come to terms on happened. Both mother and father killed by a crime lord while she birthed twins for a highly revered and coveted assassin. It all boiled down to this very moment; Logan was happy to see him, surprised and relieved. She didn't like being alone, and certainly felt it was only fair for her children finally met their father.

"I was just about to make breakfast." Logan's voice was thick with emotion, still roughened from sleep. "Would you like to join us?"

John smiled, "I would."

* * *

The rest of the day was Addy and Adrian exploring and interrogating John amidst rough-play with the dog. Though, most of the questioning came from Addy, who often interrupted herself with another question or a sudden epiphany. The parents barely had a moment to themselves to talk.

At length, the sun made its descent. The crickets began their chorus and both Addy and Adrian laid strewn like sleeping rag dolls across John, who sat still on the living room couch.

"Finally," Logan sighed, scooping an incapacitated Adrian gently into her arms. "I'll take this."

"I'll take this one," John said softly, coddling the girl close as he stood and followed Logan upstairs. In the most candid fashion, during the most unprecedented circumstances, Logan and John put their children to bed and returned downstairs. As out-of-routine as it felt, Logan cast the mixture of emotions aside, because despite it, it felt natural.

"Bourbon, isn't?" Logan asked hovering at the small wet bar in her dining room.

John nodded, taking a seat at the long, cherry-wood table.

She decanted them both a glass, proffered his drink and sat at the opposing side of the table.

Knowing John was not a man of many words, Logan had no intentions allow a thickening silence to swell between them. She could wait for the drink to soften his tongue, or break the silence herself. Plus, six years was enough waiting for Logan.

"What are you doing, John?" she asked frankly. Unfazed by how cold and biting the question came.

John looked up from his drink, stroking the side of the glass with an idle thumb. "Looking at you."

Logan narrowed her gray eyes. "What are you doing _here_?"

"It's over." He finished his bourbon in one swig, settling the glass gently on the table with a quenched sigh. Logan rose, grabbed the decanter and set it next to him. While he poured himself another drink, she took a small sip herself.

"What's over?" The imbibe warmed her tongue and throat.

The sight of John sitting before her under the warm dining room light, relaxed with one hand resting in his lap, the other rotating his drink like a carousel, seemed somewhat rewarding. True, she'd lost two people in her life because of this man but, because of this man, she gained two more. And whether by some divine intervention or balance within herself, she'd take her children any day over her unstable parents. The gain was much greater than the loss.

So in that quiet moment, as it seemed, Logan decided to forgive John, for everything.

"Did the Bowery King take care of you?" he asked.

"He did."

"Good." He paused, a pensive expression tightened his features. "The contract is finally closed. The Camorra has been overthrown. The High Table disbanded."

"Why did you wait so long?"

"To come home?"

 _Home,_ her heart swelled painfully. _Yes, why did you wait so long to come home?_

She nodded, unable to trust her voice.

"I had to be sure. I think I've done enough damage as is, don't you?"

"Fair enough," she rose her drink in toast and downed the contents.

"My kids," he whispered, thoughtful.

Logan coughed, choking on the burning caught in her throat. She covered her mouth and breathed carefully while she placed her glass back on the table.

The house was old and amplified every small noise. The floors creaked and the pipes groaned, but it wasn't dilapidated and had already gone through an overhaul before she arrived. Her efforts throughout the years to turn the house into a home gave charm and personality to the farmhouse. She made it what it was today. The pictures; the notches on either side of the door frame, archiving Addy and Adrian's growth; the little shoes covered in mud near the foyer; the swing set in the backyard and the worn down path through the corn fields.

Forged memories and candid evidence of Logan's solitary work could now be shared with another.

"I've always wanted to say that," John finished when Logan no longer choked on a lung. " _My kids._ "

"Our kids." Logan corrected him rather fondly. "I'm glad you're here."

John's dark stare held hers for a moment before he finished off his second glass and came around the table to crouch before her.

He took her hands into his, running the pads of his thumbs over the tops. He studied her hands, the scaring along her palms. A mother's hands.

"I missed you." He looked up.

The cold, predatory gaze indicative to John's stare was gone. Logan only a saw man now, cracked open and bleeding.

Logan's heart throbbed. Unable to find her voice again, she nodded quietly.

He leaned up, needing to kiss her, and Logan happily met his lips with her own. The same dark beard scratched her skin pleasantly as their lips parted for each other. His warms arms snaked around her waist, pulling her down to the floor and into his waiting lap. Logan clung to him, knotting her fingers in his dark tresses. The same wiry frame pressed against her, muscle flexing to pull her eagerly closer.

Logan severed the kiss, a flush warmed her lips as she tugged John against her, squeezing him, clutching him. He pressed her face into the curve of her neck, buried with dark hair, and inhaled deeply.

He shook beneath her, tightening the cage of his arms around her back, crushing her lungs. She could never be close enough to him and it seemed he felt the same.

"I love you, Logan." his voice was muffled by her hair.

"I love you too, John."

* * *

 _-Fin-_

 **Thank you guys for sharing your time with me while I (and Holly!) told this story. I'm working on a Witcher 3 fanfic now, if anyone of you are interested. Keep an eye out. I LOVE YALL!**


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